The Mentalist: Mr Right
by Donnamour1969
Summary: Patrick Jane is the bachelor on a reality dating show called "Mr. Right". Unexpected circumstances throw Teresa Lisbon in the running for his affections-along with twenty-four other willing ladies. Does Teresa alone hold the key to his lonely heart? Extreme AU. Romance, humor, suspense. Rated T/M for adult situations.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** One of my favorite shows is "The Bachelor," and I know it makes many non-romantics groan. But it's a social experiment more than anything, and I love to see how people react in unusual circumstances. If you're a fan, you've seen that sometimes this show can really work, can lead to a happy ending. But also, it can be a total disaster in the end. I had the idea that it might be really fun if I put our favorite characters in this situation. I hope you suspend your disbelief and skepticism for a little while and have fun along with me.

 **Mr. Right.**

 **Chapter 1**

"She insists on doing this, despite the threats against me. But Grace is a grown woman, and her mind is set on going on this ridiculous reality show. No amount of cajoling or even bribery has made a damn difference. She's as pigheaded as her mother. There's nothing I can do about it—except hire security. That's where _you_ come in." Senator Jeremiah Van Pelt looked deeply into Teresa Lisbon's eyes, hoping the intensity of his gaze would further convey the gravity of the situation.

"What about the Secret Service?" Teresa asked, leaning forward in her chair, the better to hide the nervous shifting of her feet. She hoped she looked cool and collected, when in fact her mind and heart were racing madly. "Isn't that their job, to protect the families of US Senators?"

The senator rose from the chair across from her desk and ran an agitated hand through his close cropped, auburn hair. He was tall and graying at the temples, but still held the military bearing from his thirty years in the Marine Corps.

"They don't find the threat to Grace credible, and in this age of government cuts and shortages…well, I thought taking care of this myself would be more expedient, and more _private_ , if you take my meaning."

"Of course, sir. Discretion is a priority with LCR."

He nodded curtly. "Good. You come highly recommended from my old friend Virgil Minelli. Damn shame the trouble plaguing the CBI. Our government entities should be above corruption and conspiracies. Glad you and your team were cleared of any wrongdoing. Virgil was certainly grateful he'd retired before that all went down."

"Yes, sir," she said mildly, though inside she was cringing at the painful reminder of how the state bureau had been all but dismantled six months before.

Gone were her dreams of someday leading the entire Sacramento branch, and she and her team had left amidst disgrace and scandal. The FBI wouldn't touch anyone from the CBI, despite the fact that they'd been cleared, and her choice for employment became either to start from the bottom at some local police department or private security agency, or strike out on her own. She was fortunate that the top members of her CBI team had chosen to take a chance and build this new business with her. But it had been slow going, mainly because a quick search on the internet showed her connections to the CBI and its recent scandal. No one wanted to hire a dirty cop, even though a more thorough search would show that she'd been cleared.

Despite all of this, Teresa had vowed to herself and her partners to give LCR Security and Investigations a year to catch fire, but her savings was quickly dwindling, and she was afraid she'd have to shut the doors before the paint on her shingle had completely dried. A referral from a powerful, much admired US Senator could go a long way toward building a more positive reputation, could bring in the business they so desperately needed.

"So," Senator Van Pelt was saying, "Have you seen this show, _Mr. Right?"_

"I have," she admitted casually, for in truth she'd never missed a season. It was one of her few guilty pleasures—along with bubble baths and romance novels. But no one would ever suspect (nor would she want them to) that the straight-laced, all business, former Agent Lisbon was a romantic at heart.

"Well it's a bunch of horse hockey, as far as I'm concerned," he continued irately. "Some oversexed Romeo picks a wife from a twenty-five woman harem? It's positively medieval! I looked up an episode online, and it was nothing but a bunch of scantily clad people drinking too much and having what amounts to orgies! It was absolutely shameful, debasing to all womankind. It seemed more like a—a _cattle_ auction than a reality show. I can't believe my Gracie would want to be a part of that! It's certainly not how she was raised."

 _Orgies?_ Teresa thought. A bit of an exaggeration. There was certainly a lot of making out, and a few overnight dates in the Romance Suite, but nothing that amounted to an orgy. Well, nothing they ever showed on camera anyway.

"Yes," agreed Teresa diplomatically. "I'm sure this isn't how a father would want their daughter to find a husband, but there actually have been some successful marriages that came from this show…"

"Grace _will not_ end up marrying this guy, not if I have anything to say about it. I'll let her have her moment of fun—even if it costs me the next election—but I'll be damned if I let her marry some phony, overpriced gigolo." She watched the man visibly take a deep breath to calm himself. His reddening face was looking a tad unhealthy, and she wondered if she'd have to call an ambulance soon.

"Would you like a glass of water, Senator?" she asked, rising in concern. She went to the mini fridge at the back of her office and took out a bottled water. "Maybe you should sit down, sir."

He did, accepting the water gratefully. "You have anything stronger?" he asked after chugging down half the bottle. He smiled ruefully, and she knew he was probably more than half serious. She had some scotch in her bottom desk drawer for emergencies, but thought maybe she shouldn't mention that. She sat back in her chair.

"Look," he said when he'd calmed considerably. "I promised her I wouldn't interfere or try to influence the show, but I'm still not comfortable having her parade before the cameras without some sort of security." He dug in his suit coat pocket for a business card, and slid it across her desk.

"This is the name of one of the producers of the show. He's agreed to let one of your people hang around the set, so long as they don't get in the way. The guy insisted there's other security there, but I would feel better if I knew one person was there only for my daughter. Grace will know someone is watching out for her, but she won't know specifically who it will be. She said she didn't want to know, that it would take away from the _experience,_ and she didn't want to be treated differently than anyone else. Did I tell you she was stubborn?"

Teresa smiled a little. "Yes, sir, you did."

"I guess to keep security _and_ peace in my family, I'm going to have to let someone else watch out for her," he said wryly. "I trust your team is up to this?"

"Absolutely, Senator. Your daughter will be our main priority."

He rose then, and they shook hands. "Grace is packing up to head to LA tomorrow morning. I took the liberty of purchasing a second ticket open for whomever you decide to send, and they'll be in a seat near hers. Frankly, I'd feel much better if you took care of this personally, Miss Lisbon. Virgil says you're cool in a crisis."

She resisted rolling her eyes. Babysitting a senator's daughter on a closed TV set with other security people around didn't seem like it would lend itself to a _crisis_. "I've had a lot of experience with high pressure security situations," she said dryly.

"I'm counting on it. I'd like daily reports." He stuck out his hand and Teresa shook it firmly.

"I'll be in touch, Senator."

And then he was gone, followed closely by his own security team, inconspicuous in suits of various shades of dark. Her partners, Kimball Cho and Wayne Rigsby, came in through her open door the moment the Senator left their office suite.

"Are we in, Boss?" asked Rigsby, with barely controlled glee. Beside him, the much shorter Cho stood patiently, though she could sense the tense expectation within his muscular frame.

"We are, and stop calling me _boss_ , Rigsby. We're partners now."

"Yes!" exclaimed Rigsby in response to the new job. It was no secret their fledgling company was in dire straits.

"What did he need us for?" asked the much calmer Cho.

Teresa handed him the eight-by-ten photograph of Grace Van Pelt, her long, titian hair curling about her shoulders, amber eyes warm with an innate kindness and a sparkle of mischief. She had the bone structure of a model, or maybe a Disney princess. Rigsby's looked over Cho's shoulder at the photo and his jaw literally dropped.

"That's his daughter," Teresa explained. "The senator received threats after his vote on the last gun control bill, and he seemed to believe those threats included his family. She's going on a reality dating show in LA, and he wants me to be on set to look out for her."

Rigsby's mouth closed in disappointment. "What show?"

" _Mr. Right_ ," Teresa said.

"The one with the twenty-five single women, and they travel all over the world?"

"That's the one."

Cho frowned slightly. "That show's demeaning to women."

Teresa tried not to sound defensive of her favorite show. "It has its merits."

Cho made no other comment rather than to briefly raise his dark eyebrows.

" _I_ could go," said Rigbsy eagerly. "I mean, if you two think this show is demeaning and all."

"No one's gonna look at you when they're vying for the attention of Mr. Right," kidded Cho, though his bland delivery would have sounded serious to those who didn't know him well.

"Well, for your information, only one girl ends up with him. Someone should be there to comfort the twenty-four that get rejected."

"And you're so kind to offer," Teresa said wryly. "Sorry Rigsby, but the Senator specifically asked that I take on the task. Besides, the show films for almost three months, so you guys are gonna have to be here to hold down the fort."

"Yeah, you have that home security system to install," Cho reminded him. "And I will be surveilling Mr. Kennedy's wife." His grimace gave no doubt what he thought of jealous husbands. But for now, these kinds of jobs were all that were keeping them afloat.

"This gig could set us up for bigger and better things," Teresa said happily. "I'm heading out tomorrow, but it's possible I'll only be gone a few days. Who knows; Miss Van Pelt might get sent home after the first night."

Rigsby was staring once more at the young woman's picture. "Not likely," he muttered dreamily.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Teresa sat behind Grace Van Pelt in First Class on the plane, only able to get brief glimpses of the beautiful girl between the leather seat backs. She glanced down at the file Rigsby had helpfully printed off for her, detailing all that was publicly known of the senator's daughter. She'd graduated with honors from Stanford in Criminal Justice. Currently, she was in her second year of law school at the University of San Francisco. So, she was smart and well-educated as well as gorgeous. Teresa wondered why she felt she needed to go on a reality show to find a man. She'd managed to stay out of the limelight thus far, no doubt in part because of her father's watchful eye, and the senator had said she didn't want her identity widely known while she was filming the show.

Grace didn't seem to be a party girl, and such an intense focus on her education must have left little time for it. Teresa empathized with the younger woman; having been a band nerd herself in high school and driven by her desire to get away from Chicago to become successful in law enforcement, she knew how difficult it was to form relationships outside of work. The men she'd met off the job were soon impatient with her frequently breaking dates and generally crazy hours. Since leaving the CBI, she'd had no time for anything but getting her new company up and running. Maybe taking off a few months and focusing just on developing a relationship wasn't such a bad idea. Perhaps Grace Van Pelt had seen it the same way.

In LA, Teresa rented a car after casually following Grace to the cab stand and seeing that she got in a car safely. The producer had told Teresa on the phone that the girls would move immediately into the private home where they'd be staying for their tenure on the show. Teresa showed her ID at the gate house at the end of the long drive and was admitted in her nondescript economy car and told to park in the back of the house. She stared in awe at the Spanish-style mansion where the show was filmed, surreal after having seen so many episodes set in this very place. Currently, the television crew worked like a hive of bees, busy preparing for the first day of full cast shooting the next day. She asked someone where she might find the producer she'd spoken to, Bret Stiles, and was directed to a canopy near the side of the house, where several people, including the director and the host of the show, were sitting in the shade before a bank of laptops and live feed screens, talking filming schedules and other last minute details. When there was a brief break in the conversation, Teresa Lisbon spoke up.

"Mr. Stiles. I'm Teresa Lisbon," she said to the blue-eyed Englishman.

"Aw, yes. Our additional security." His eyes sparkled with good humor as he shook her hand. "Our mutual friend didn't tell me how lovely you are."

Teresa felt a blush despite herself. "Thanks," she replied awkwardly. "If you'll just direct me to where you'd like me to be, I'll be happy to keep out of your way."

"Straight to business," he said dryly. Then he introduced her to the director, Brenda Shettrick and the onscreen host, Walter Mashburn. "Ms. Lisbon is part of the security team. Please give her every courtesy and all access to the women."

Brenda nodded kindly and turned back to her laptop, but Walter Mashburn turned the full force of his charming personality upon her, rising to his towering six foot three before taking her cool hand in his.

"A pleasure, Ms. Lisbon. Security, eh? To tell you the truth, I thought you were one of the contestants."

Teresa was a little star struck, having seen this man help guide Mr. Right through the confusing artificial marriage mart, lending his shoulder to cry on, or offering doses of tough love when the overwhelmed bachelor needed a push. He was even handsomer in person, and his brown eyes shone devilishly.

"Oh, uh, no." She laughed shakily and felt her face go redder still. He held her hand a little too long, then released it with a warm squeeze.

"Well, we're happy to have you. _Mi casa es su casa_ , as it were," Mashburn said, gesturing grandly toward the villa. "The girls are mostly here, checking out their rooms." He nodded toward the nearest live feed screen. "We have a unit in there filming their first impressions." Teresa couldn't help her curious glance at the screen, noting Grace's subdued excitement at finally being there amidst the squeals of delight from the other women.

"Have you seen the show?" asked Mashburn, chuckling at the girls' reactions.

"Yes," she said. "Every season." She wasn't embarrassed to admit it to the host of the show at least.

"How flattering." He surveyed her knowingly. "I mean, if _I_ had anything to do with so much loyal viewing."

She was tongue-tied a moment till she saw he was teasing her. She laughed. "Of course. It had nothing to do with the hunky bachelors trying to find true love."

Mashburn grinned. "Of course not."

"Mr. Stiles," Teresa said, prying her attention away from the handsome host. "May I take a look around the property, check out your security system?"

"Certainly, Ms. Lisbon. The other guards are expecting you. Make yourself at home."

"Maybe we could get a drink later," invited Mashburn softly, taking her hand again.

"I don't drink on the job," she said, but she softened her words with a dimpled smile, feeling a thrill as his eyes widened in appreciation.

"Well, then. I guess I'll see you around, Teresa."

"Mr. Mashburn."

"Walter, please, since I know we're going to be such good friends." He winked at her audaciously, and Teresa briefly wondered how the women on the show could overlook him, even for Mr. Right.

For the next hour, Teresa spoke with the on-set security contingent, discussing how well the women were guarded, their routines, etcetera. They directed her attention also to a neighboring estate, where Mr. Right would be staying. His identity was always closely guarded until the first day of the show, and speculation was wild on the internet. It was usually a successful businessman or playboy desiring to settle down at last. It was a brilliant strategy really, getting America hyped up with curiosity, eager to tune in to see who would be stealing the hearts of twenty-five women. So far, Teresa had never been disappointed. She felt a little giddy knowing that she would know before everyone else in the country, and she tamped down her own excitement, as if she too were one of the women eagerly awaiting their Prince Charming. She couldn't help pressing her hand to the wall that divided the two estates.

 _Be professional, Teresa_ , she whispered to herself. She took a deep breath and turned away from the high stone wall that separated her from Mr. Right.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Patrick Jane, mentalist and master illusionist, at that very moment was staring at the same wall. He could just see the roof of the house next door where his future wife might be waiting. His publicist had jumped at this chance for him to be in the spotlight of all America at once, even though countless others had seen him on his TV specials and had watched him perform his show live all over the country. He was perhaps the most well-known illusionist in the world at the moment, had the beautiful beach house in Malibu, the Tuscan style villa in Sonoma. He'd romanced countless women, but had never found Ms. Right. He was forty years old and had never been married-not even close-and now he wondered if something might be wrong with _him_ , rather than the beautiful but boring creatures he'd dated.

Two years before, a friend of his had found love on the show _Mr. Right,_ and currently he and his missus were expecting their first child. Patrick had seen first-hand how the show could work, had even been a guest on his friend's season where Patrick had offered his advice onscreen, using his skills as a mentalist to size up the final two women he'd had to choose between. The feedback about Patrick's brief appearance had been phenomenal, and the producers had asked him to be the next Mr. Right. It had taken two years for him to clear his busy schedule in order to make time to do the show. Two years of pointless dates, empty, sterile houses, and lonely hotel rooms.

 _I'm clearly having a midlife crisis_ , Patrick thought wearily. He was successful, but what was it all for if not to share with a wife and family? Soon his chance for enjoying his own children would be off the table, and he heard the ticking of his biological clock as loudly as a blacksmith pounding an anvil in his head. He didn't want to be a grandfather to his own kids; he wanted to be young enough to enjoy them. He'd tried dating aps and matchmaking services, to no avail. The trouble was, his uncanny ability to read people had taken away most of the surprise in dating, in discovering new and exciting things about a woman. He'd take one look at her and find himself disappointedly unimpressed.

Being Mr. Right, he thought desperately, might be his last hope. He closed his eyes and turned his face up to the warm California sun.

"Mr. Jane," said one of the producers. "You're needed in makeup before you film some of your intro segments."

Patrick nodded, and, with one last hopeful glance at the wall, walked toward his temporary home.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"You're not bloody serious," Teresa overheard Bret Stiles practically yelling into his phone the next afternoon. "An appendicitis? Seriously? What about our backup girls?"

He listened a moment in consternation, then held his hand over the receiver while he spoke to Brenda Shettrick. "None of the women on standby live in California and can make it to the set on time. Looks like we're going to have to be short a woman this season."

"What? We've always had twenty-five contestants," she said. "That's what the viewers expect. Can't we just find some actress to fill in this first night, then we can come up with some excuse for her to leave."

"That kind of thing takes time, arrangements with acting agencies, screen tests, background checks. We can't deceive Mr. Jane, who we know will be able to spot an actress a mile away. We can't afford him, or the other women bad-mouthing the show to the press. We've already had to deal with gossip that the show is a fake."

Walter Mashburn joined Teresa where she stood just on the outskirts of the canopy, watching on the live feedback screen Grace tanning herself alongside other women by the swimming pool in the back of the house. That night, they would meet Mr. Right for the first time.

"What's going on?" Mashburn asked, moving to stand beside her.

"Looks like the girl they took to the emergency room last night had an appendicitis. The show's short a contestant."

He listened to the ongoing argument between Stiles and Brenda, then with whomever Stiles was talking to on the phone. Teresa felt Mashburn's eyes come to rest heavily on her, and she looked up into the face of a man on a mission.

"What about her," he asked, interrupting the crisis beneath the canopy. Everyone froze and turned to look at Teresa.

"What?" she managed, startled, but no one was paying attention to what was coming out of her mouth. Instead, they were sizing her up with critical eyes.

"How old are you?" asked Brenda.

"Uh, thirty-eight," Teresa stammered. "Surely you're not thinking—"

"She's a little older than Jane's parameters, but she looks almost ten years younger. You married? Have a boyfriend?" asked Stiles.

"Well, no, but—" _Jane?_ _Who was Jane?_

They were all nodding and giving each other meaningful looks.

"Look, we just need you for one night," said Stiles, "then we'll make an excuse why you have to leave the show so Mr. Right won't even have the chance to pick you at the Key Ceremony."

"But I have a job to do," Teresa protested, feeling as if she were losing complete control of the situation.

"And you can do it up close and personal if you're on the show tonight," countered Stiles.

"What about the personal package?" asked Brenda. "We don't have time to film one." Teresa knew they meant the introductory video about each of the twenty-five contestants, that took the viewers to their hometowns, showed something of their real life.

"There's always one or two that we edit out on the show. The fans are used to it. Besides, they will barely have a chance to get to know her before she's gone," said Mashburn.

"We'll pay you," said Stiles suddenly. "Double what you're getting as a security guard, just for one night on the show."

"No, I really don't want—"

"You can do this, Teresa," Mashburn was saying. "Just meet Mr. Right, have a few cocktails, make small talk with the other women, and then you'll suddenly disappear. We'll tell our bachelor you've taken ill."

"But they'll all see me around the set the rest of the time, doing my real job. What will everyone think then?"

"We'll fill them in on what really happened later. Mr. Right will understand. He knows what can happen in showbiz," said Stiles. "The show must go on and all that. Please, Ms. Lisbon. We're in a bind here. You're beautiful, accomplished, well-connected. And we know you've passed a background check and can be counted on in your job to show great discretion. And we've surely got a cocktail dress you can wear tonight. We'll even help you with makeup and hair, something we rarely do. But I can already tell the camera will adore you!"

"But this isn't fair to Mr. Right," Teresa said, heart pounding at what was actually about to happen to her. She could feel her willpower wavering. "He wants someone here that wants to find love, someone here for the right reasons."

"Don't _you_ want to find love?" asked Walter Mashburn with a sly smile.

"Well, yes, but not like this."

"And you won't really be expected to. Come on. It'll be fun. I'll definitely owe you that drink." Mashburn's smile was devastatingly charming.

They were all silent as they awaited her answer, three sets of eyes appealing with her to say yes and solve their problem for them. It certainly was true that she would be able to get even closer to Grace if she were allowed to participate in the party tonight, but the idea of having cameras following her around, of being on display like—what did Senator Van Pelt call it? A cattle auction? Watching it play out on TV was one thing; being a part of it was something else. Still, it was only for one night, and her company could definitely use the extra money…

 _Come on, Teresa, do something daring outside your job for once,_ said the little devil whispering on her shoulder.

"Okay," she said, her voice surprisingly steady, "I'll do it."

 **A/N: What do you think so far? I hope you enjoyed this set up. More soon.**


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I apologize that it took so long to post this new chapter. Work, family, and other real life intervened with my fanfiction, lol. But let me express my sincere thanks to those who dove into this story, despite their misgivings about reality dating shows. I hope I don't disappoint.

 **Chapter 2**

Someone found Teresa a slinky black halter dress—a little tighter than she'd prefer in the bosom, but it lifted her to a gratifying height-or so Walter Mashburn said with his eyes when he saw her. Her hair had been straightened and fell sleekly to her shoulders. Her makeup was heavier than normal; kohl emphasizing her green eyes. Normally the women did their own hair and makeup on the show, but Stiles thought they'd give her the royal treatment, considering the favor she was doing them and her lack of anything suitable beyond her basic clothes and cosmetics. She would meet the other women at the same time they made their individual dramatic entrances from the grand staircase inside the mansion. Mr. Right would be waiting at the foot of the stairs to greet them, learn their names, and hopefully make amusing small talk. Or so the director hoped.

"So, you'll go up the back stairs at the very last minute," Mashburn was saying, his hand resting low on her bare back as they stood just outside a side door in the relative darkness. It was late evening, and she was already tired of the monotonous wait, first inside a makeup trailer, then here, out of the light. And her feet were killing her in the unaccustomedly high heels.

"The other ladies will be extremely curious about the late arrival," the host continued, "and probably a bit jealous that you are getting special treatment. Don't worry; that will just add to the drama in the house."

"I really don't want to be a part of any drama," she said, the whole idea suddenly making her very nervous. She wished she could have accepted the glass of wine she'd been offered, but she'd insisted she had to keep a clear head. She knew how this show worked. The cattiness of some of the women always made the audience root for particular bachelorettes, and that was sure to be on full display with the help of some tongue-loosening alcohol. She swallowed over her dry throat. "I'm just hoping to be able to give better protection to my cli—uh, to _all_ the women here."

"Yeah, yeah, but your mysterious appearance and your whole-hearted participation needs to take priority, at least for tonight. After that, well, you're free as a bird to be with whomever you want."

Teresa smiled at his flattering tenacity. "No, then I'm free to do my _real_ job."

He shrugged, and she'd just heard him say _Whatever_ under his breath before Brenda Shettrick called him over to her. "See you in a few," he said aloud before leaving her waiting by the door.

A few minutes later, someone yelled for silence on the set, and Brenda called: "Action!"

Teresa peeked around the stone recess she stood within to see the arrival of Mr. Right. The cameras were rolling as the limo arrived on the wet pavement (it had been sprayed down earlier to more dramatically reflect the lighting around the house). The chauffeur got out and opened the back door. Out stepped the most incredibly handsome man Teresa had ever seen. He was of average height, but the force of his charisma made him seem taller somehow. His body was slim and well-proportioned, a man made to wear an expensive three-piece suit. His hair was blonde and wavy, expertly styled to look like he'd just gotten out of bed. He had the face of an angel, but his blue-green eyes sparkled with a devilishness that made her stomach do a little flip. She squinted in the dim light, and then her eyes widened as she recognized him. This was Patrick Jane, Master Illusionist. _Damn, the producers had made quite a coup getting this guy._

She strained to hear what Mashburn was saying to him as they met in the front courtyard.

"So, it's a long way from being an illusionist to playing Mr. Right."

"Actually, it's just a couple hours up Highway 1 to my house…"

Mashburn chuckled. "I'm sure you know what I mean."

Patrick's cheeks creased in a devastating grin. How would the women in the house be able to think straight around _that_? She gulped. _How will I?_

"Yeah, this is actually pretty surreal," Patrick was saying, "I can't believe my friends talked me into doing this."

"But something must have been missing in your life for you to feel you needed a show like this to find a wife, a guy like you that seems to have it all."

Mashburn was trying to elicit some serious emotion for the cameras. Somehow, Teresa knew Patrick Jane was seeing right through his subtle manipulation, but he gamely went along. He was a man already used to showbiz, after all.

"I'm sure you know how it is out there, Walter, your being an eligible man yourself. I frankly haven't had the time in my busy life to find the kind of woman I've been missing. You guys have done all the work for me, so now I have fewer frogs to kiss to find my Mrs. Right."

"You think she'll be here?"

"Well, _I_ wouldn't be here if I didn't have that hope."

"You're quite a bit older than our usual Mr. Right, and so are our many of our lovely ladies, for that matter."

"You'd better not mention that to any of them, my friend," warned Patrick with a laugh. "Unfortunately, there are a lot of men and women who are older and single these days. I appreciate that the show is taking a chance and showing that you can still find love at middle age."

Mashburn smiled in agreement. "Speaking as a fellow Gen-Xer, I'm happy to oblige. But given your age, what exactly are you looking for in a woman?"

Patrick didn't hesitate. "Independence. Confidence. A sense of humor. A pretty face doesn't hurt, but that's not what's important to me—not anymore, anyway. I think I've finally grown up." His smirk was charmingly self-deprecating.

Mashburn laughed. "Well, the women you're about to meet all have _very_ pretty faces, and represent a wide range in ages, so I'll leave it up to you to find out who has all the other qualities you're looking for."

"I'm looking forward to it, Walter."

"With that being said, why don't I get out of your way so you can meet them." Mashburn gestured to the front door of the house. "After you."

Brenda yelled, "Cut!" They would have to set up the next shot at the foot of the staircase inside. In her shadowed spot near the side door, Teresa let out the breath she'd been holding. Patrick Jane was simply incredible, from his movie star good looks to his winning personality. Whoever got him would be one lucky lady.

Mashburn made his way back to her while Patrick went over to the craft services table and grabbed a bottled water. The camera crew went inside to get to work.

"So, what do you think of him?" Mashburn asked her curiously.

"How did you ever rope the hottest magician in the world?" she said in wonder, her eyes following Patrick's every move.

"His publicist put out the word he was interested about two years ago, but we couldn't get schedules to align until now. Once America sees who our Mr. Right is, the ratings will be through the roof."

"No doubt," she concurred. She felt Mashburn's eyes upon her and looked up to meet them. His hand reached out to brush a lock of dark hair behind her shoulder. "You don't mind if I call dibs on you first, before Jane gets sight of you?"

"Dibs?" She didn't know whether to be offended or amused. She hesitantly chose somewhere in between. "This is just business, remember? I'm not available for anyone to call dibs on right now."

He brushed her flushed cheek with the back of one finger. "Pity," he murmured. To her great surprise, he leaned down as if to kiss her, and her heart jolted to life. But just at that moment, Brenda called him to return to the set, saving Teresa from a complication she really couldn't afford right now. Already, she didn't like the fact that Grace Van Pelt had been out of her sight for so long, and she was anxious to go into the house to make sure she was okay.

"See you in a few minutes," Mashburn said reluctantly. "Someone will let you in this door when it's time to make your appearance. You'll be the last one in line."

"Okay," she agreed, her speeding heart making her sound breathless. She hoped he didn't mistake her nerves about being on TV for a deep romantic interest.

He smiled softly at her and went around the house to the front. A few minutes later, an assistant let Teresa in through the side door and up a back staircase. She was able to see Grace now, watched her talk in excited whispers to the other women who were waiting in an upstairs sitting room. Everyone looked up at Teresa's sudden arrival, and all talking stopped. But before they could question her, the first woman was called to meet who they hoped would be their Mr. Right.

"Quiet ladies," said a producer. "We're rolling downstairs."

Teresa sat silently in a leather chair, trying to ignore the stares of bewilderment directed her way. She did manage to catch Grace's eye, and the senator's daughter gave her a warm smile of welcome.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

Patrick stood at the foot of the grand staircase, feeling very much like Jack on _Titanic_. He hoped this wasn't an omen for any upcoming disasters. His lips quirked at the unintended irony. He was certainly used to the manufactured dramatics of showbusiness, but usually he was the one in control of the elaborate sets in his illusion show. He wasn't sure he liked not knowing what to expect next. He took a deep breath, feeling the cameras tightening in on his expression as he awaited the arrival of the first bachelorette.

She appeared at the top of the stairs, a classy brunette with chic short hair that not many women had the guts or the bone structure to pull off. She looked exotic and sophisticated, especially in her ethereally flowing dress of white and gold, reminiscent of ancient Egypt. She stepped confidently down the steps in strappy sandals, the slits in the sides of her skirt revealing enticing glimpses of long, tan legs.

She gave him a small, mysterious smile, and he moved to take her warm hands the moment she reached the final step, flashing her one of his friendliest grins as he looked into eyes of brown velvet that tilted up slightly at the corners. _Like a cat,_ he thought in amusement.

"I'm Erica," she said, leaning in to kiss his cheek. She smelled of sandalwood and jasmine.

"Patrick."

"Nice to meet you, Patrick. You look very familiar, but I'm embarrassed to say I can't place you. I spend a lot of time out of the country…"

He almost laughed at her slight condescension. Two could play that game. "You might have seen _me_ , but I certainly would have remembered seeing you."

"Well, I'm looking forward to getting to getting to know you better, Patrick. I'll see you at the party."

She hugged him gently, and he felt the pleasing press of her full breasts against his chest. "I can't wait."

 _She was intriguing_ , he thought happily as he watched the smooth sway of her hips as she walked toward the downstairs living room and disappeared from view. He felt the presence of the next woman and looked up to see the newest arrival. This lady was quite a contrast to Erica, and seemed infinitely more approachable. Her hair was long, strawberry blonde and curly, and she wore a simple strapless dress the same deep blue of her eyes. Despite her elegant gown, there was something of the bohemian about her that appealed to him, reminded him of his old days working on the carnival circuit. As she drew closer and extended her hand, he delighted in the pale smattering of freckles on her décolletage and bare shoulders. She smiled confidently at him, and his other hand wrapped around hers.

"And who might you be?" he asked.

"Kristina. And you are Patrick Jane, famous illusionist."

He gave an amused nod. "Guilty as charged."

"I saw your show once in Vegas. Fabulous. I especially enjoyed the mentalist segment. I'm a bit of a psychic myself."

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh really?"

"Yes."

"What am I thinking right now then?" he asked playfully.

"Hmmm. You're thinking you'd really like to get to know me better and you're just a little scared that I _can_ actually read minds. But don't worry, Patrick; I won't give away any of your secrets."

He chuckled, deciding to play along. "I'm relieved to hear it. And I promise to keep yours too." She squeezed his hand and kissed his cheek, and he knew instinctively he would have to watch out for this one.

As the cameras kept rolling, yet another contestant appeared the moment Kristina left. He was immediately struck by the second dark-haired beauty of the evening. There was something raw and sensual about her. She was petite and confident, from some exotic culture that he couldn't quite define. There was an air of power emanating from her, an inner strength, a world-weariness that hinted at a secret pain. Her smile was brilliant when she saw him, so blinding against her olive skin that he wondered if he'd imagined the edginess. She wore a form-fitting little black dress that hit her toned thighs way above her knees, and red killer stilettos that added three inches to her diminutive height. He found himself holding his breath as she descended the stairs, poised to rescue her should she catch her heel on a step. But she didn't need rescuing.

He felt compelled to help her down the last three stairs, however, and she laughed, a musical sound that skated pleasantly across his nerves.

"Thank you," she said, brown eyes sparkling. "I probably should have rethought these heels. Vanity, thy name is Jimmy Choo."

He grinned, charmed. "And what's _your_ name?"

"Lorelei," she replied, and he instantly adored the way the three syllables rolled off her tongue. He repeated her name solemnly, and held tightly to her small hands. "I'm Patrick."

"Nice to meet you, Patrick. You know, I have the strangest feeling we're going to get along really well. Buy me a beer later?"

"It will be my pleasure." For the first time, he was the one to lean in and press his lips to a woman's soft cheek. She smelled like rich, dark vanilla, and he was reluctant to let her go.

Patrick physically shook himself out of the daze he was in before the next bachelorette appeared. "Geeze," he whispered to himself. He hadn't been expecting such a visceral reaction so quickly. But his intense gaze softened immediately upon sight of the gorgeous redhead in cream satin who laughed at herself all the way down the stairs as she held tightly and unashamedly to the railing. She was a breath of fresh air—peaches and cream complexion, all-American, her smile genuine and kind. She pulled him into a warm hug, and with her high heels, they were almost the same height.

"Hi," she said breathlessly, "I'm Grace. Ironic I know, after nearly stumbling down the stairs. Is surviving those my first test?"

He smiled easily at her, liking her instantly. "Yes, and you passed with flying colors. I'm Patrick, by the way."

Her brow furrowed, then her eyes widened in recognition. "Patrick Jane! Oh my God! You're Patrick Jane!"

"That's me."

"I've seen all your TV specials. You're amazing!"

He couldn't help chuckling at her enthusiasm. "Thank you. I think you're pretty amazing too, Grace."

She blushed prettily. "I'm so excited to be here, even more so since I know that it's you."

"Same here."

"Hey, I know it might sound fangirly, but could you show me a magic trick sometime?"

"I'd love to," he said sincerely, and then, after first bringing her knuckles to his lips, he turned her hand over and opened it. At once, a monarch butterfly arose gracefully from her open palm and fluttered its silky wings. She was briefly startled, then delighted as the beautiful insect rose into the air between them. Grace watched in awe as it flew away to alight on a bouquet of flowers in the foyer.

"Wow," she breathed. She kissed him almost reverently on the cheek, her eyes softly sparkling when she drew back. He recognized when a woman was enamored of him. "Nice to meet you, Patrick."

"And you, Grace. I'll see you at the party."

Brenda cut the scene after she left, and Patrick let out a small sigh of relief. Mashburn appeared at his side, and someone from makeup came to carefully blot the men's faces. Neither of them spoke, saving their conversation for the cameras. After a sip of water, the cameras were rolling again.

"So, Patrick, how's it going so far? What do you think of just the first four women?"

He shook his head in wonder. "I'm very impressed so far. I don't know what I'll do if all the women are of this caliber."

"Not a bad problem to have though, eh?"

"No, I guess not."

"Here's your next lady now. I'll leave you to it, Patrick."

"Thanks, Walter."

For the next two hours, they filmed each first meeting, stopping after every few women made their entrances. Sometimes they had to re-shoot a flubbed greeting or pause when the audio wasn't working. By the time they reached the last woman, Patrick was feeling a bit overwhelmed. Some of them he already knew wouldn't be a match for him. He detected one or two whose personalities verged on the sociopathic, and more than that who seemed only to be there for their moment in the spotlight. He was mildly attracted to a few, intrigued by a handful, and was thoroughly enjoying meeting them all.

Walter announced the final woman, and Patrick looked up at the top of the staircase in anticipation. He wondered vaguely if the microphone had picked up his quickly indrawn breath. It wasn't as if she were the most beautiful of all the ladies who had descended before, and she certainly looked nervous as she cautiously took each step, but when she met his eyes, he felt a quick jolt in the region of his heart. She smiled a bit shyly, revealing adorable dimples that did funny things to his pulse.

"Hi," she said, holding out her hand. "I'm Number Twenty-five."

He laughed and took her small, cool hand between both of his. His eyes roved over her hungrily, trying to absorb all of her at once in a vain attempt to assess what it was about her that put him so off balance.

"They saved the best for last," he said, kissing her hand, his finger settling on the racing pulse at her wrist. The faint scent of roses tantalized his senses. He looked up into sage green eyes whose dilated pupils surely matched his own. Whereas some of the other women had stirred his blood, this one was tugging at his heart.

"What's your name?" he asked softly.

"Teresa. And you're Patrick," she replied.

"You know who I am?" For the first time all evening, he was delighted and flattered to hear this.

"I've seen you on TV," she said casually.

"Hmm. So you must like magic."

"When it's done well." Now that sounded like a challenge, and so did her enticing blush.

"I'll have to see what I can do about that. Maybe we can talk more about it later."

"That would be nice."

He still held her hand, still looked deeply into her eyes. He found he didn't want to let her go, forgot that time was ticking by. The director didn't want these first meetings to last more than three minutes, tops. He felt a slight pull from her hand, came to himself as if in a trance.

"I'll see you at the party," she said, and he watched her walk away. Halfway to the living room door, she paused, looking down at her hand in surprise. He grinned. She'd found his gift. She looked back over her shoulder at him with an expression of such pleasure that he felt his heart stutter in his chest. With a warm smile, she closed her hand from view of the cameras and went into the other room.

Mashburn stepped in to wrap up the first meetings.

"You've got a tough job, my friend," he said to Patrick.

"I sure do." At least, he'd thought it would be a difficult choice…up until he'd met Teresa.

"Well, are you ready to get to know them a little better?" Mashburn asked brightly.

"Absolutely."

But Patrick could still feel the warmth of Teresa's skin next to his, could still smell the lingering scent of roses.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

The rest of the long night was mostly a blur. Patrick had never seen women so aggressive. He felt a little like chum thrown into a shark tank. He had a few lively conversations, but it was more like speed dating, for he'd just start to get into a conversation with a woman when another intervened, and the whole thing began all over again. The one woman he wanted most to spend time with seemed to hover around the margins of the party. She didn't seek him out, didn't try to interrupt his time with the other ladies. But somehow, even when he was sitting with someone else, whether near the pool outside, or in one of the artfully arranged romantic nooks around the house, he would find his eyes wandering, searching for her. Once, their eyes met across the room and held for a heart-stopping moment. He abruptly excused himself from his current company, and strode toward her, stopping to pick up two flutes of champagne from the refreshment table. A hush fell over the room, and all eyes were glued to them.

The cameramen, his third wheels at every assignation, followed him as he walked toward Teresa, who was sitting near the lovely redhead, Grace, as she had throughout most of the evening. Almost as if she were the younger woman's guardian angel, he thought absently.

"Teresa," he said softly, offering her a bubbly glass.

"Hi."

While one of her hands was occupied with taking the champagne from him, he took hold of her other hand, leading her outside the overly warm living room. "Come with me?" he asked belatedly, as the cool night air enveloped them. He drew her to an outdoor sofa near the vibrantly lit pool.

"You've been hiding," he said, as they sat down. Her black, silky skirt settled about her lovely knees, and her perfect breasts strained pleasingly against the haltered bodice. Her pale skin glowed like a pearl in the dim light-a rarity in this land of fake tans.

"Not hiding, just…waiting," she replied. She took a sip from her glass, wrinkling her nose slightly as the bubbles tickled her. He found her utterly charming.

"This is a really crazy situation," he said, making conversation. "I'm not quite sure how to wrap my head around it. I thought I was a fairly laid-back fellow—not so tonight. I'm tense as a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs."

She laughed. "That sounds more like a Texas expression than one from a native Californian."

"No Texas in my blood, I'm sorry to say, but I spent a fair amount of time there in my carnie days. You sound like you're from…Chicago."

She looked impressed. "I've tried hard to hide my accent. You're good." She'd seen some of his mentalist tricks too.

He shrugged. "It's harder than we think to hide that sort of thing. So tell me, Teresa, what do you do?"

She raised an eyebrow. " _You_ tell me."

He grinned at the challenge, and at her spunk. Apparently she didn't buy all the fake psychic shtick he employed sometimes in his mentalist act. His admiration for her increased tenfold. _Very well. Challenge accepted_.

"Hmm…you're in some sort of law enforcement, I'm guessing."

Her green eyes widened a fraction, but she waited patiently for him to sort through to find the exact truth. He studied her carefully, noticed her bearing. She had the look of a woman who took control.

"Or, you _were_ in law enforcement. Now…you're your own boss. Maybe some sort of private security?"

"How did you-?"

He shrugged. "I thought you knew what _I_ do."

She smiled, and he wondered if his pulse would ever stop fluttering at the sight of it. He hoped not. He reached for her hand, saw that she had something in it that she was holding carefully. She let him turn her hand over. When he lightly squeezed her wrist, she opened her fingers, and there rested the gift he'd surreptitiously deposited when they'd first met: a tiny, silver origami rose he'd fashioned from a gum wrapper. She'd kept it. The sight of it in her soft palm filled him with sudden joy, and he met green eyes that sparkled in her faintly flushed cheeks.

Just then, another woman's voice intruded on their moment. "Sorry, but may I have a minute, Patrick?" It was Erica, the dark-haired beauty he'd been taken with earlier—before _this_ dark-haired beauty had walked down those stairs.

Teresa rose, and it took all the gentlemanly manners his mother had instilled in him not to rudely reject their interloper. He rose to his feet, and Teresa quickly followed suit.

"Sure," she said to Erica. "Have at him. Patrick, it was nice talking to you."

"Yes," he said with more sincerity than he'd ever used with that word. "Until later..."

He watched her leave with overwhelming regret, and he forced himself to focus on Erica. But even her sophisticated charm and wicked sense of humor could not distract him from Teresa and the rose she'd saved in her hand like a treasure.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Much later, the party was winding down, and it was time to give out the First Key to the woman who had impressed him the most that night. At a nod from Mashburn off camera, Patrick crossed the living room to the coffee table, where a gold-plated skeleton key lay, about six inches long with beautiful metal filigreed roses and ivy decorating the very top. Each of the fifteen keys he would present to the women he'd chosen that night had its own number; at the end of the _Mr. Right_ journey, only one of those keys would unlock his heart. Or so the symbolism went.

Without saying a word to the expectant women nearby, Patrick left to find Teresa, who had been sitting in a gazebo near some of the other contestants, including Grace—smiling and watching their interactions, though not overtly participating. He greeted the others with a smile, which widened to show blindingly white teeth as he stood before Teresa.

"Teresa," he said. "Will you accept this key?"

She looked up at him in surprise, her eyes captured by his. Without thinking, she held out an empty hand and let him place the cool weight of it in her palm.

"Yes," she said, forgetting the plan that would have had her leaving the show that night without a word—certainly without a key.

In the director's tent, Bret Stiles looked at Brenda Shettrick with an ironic shake of his head.

"As you Yanks like to say, _Houston, we have a problem_."

 **A/N: So our beloved pair have met, and both seem very smitten. Too bad there are still those pesky other women to contend with, lol. Thanks for reading. More soon.**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thanks so much for the lovely reviews of Chapter 2, and thank you for your continued patience. I admit my chapters seem to take awhile for me to publish, but it's because I like to take things slowly and tend to obsess about word choice and the like. Anyway, I hope this was worth the wait.**

 **Chapter 3**

All through the Key Ceremony, when Patrick Jane was handing out the possible keys to his heart to fourteen other women, Teresa kept waiting for the producer, director, or even Walter Mashburn to pull her aside and say, _this is it. You can go back to watching from the sidelines._ But no one made a move to do that, and she stood on the dais waiting with the other girls, the key he'd given her earlier feeling heavy in her hand. If she were being honest with herself, she wasn't sure she wanted to stand by and watch Patrick choose someone else to be with. It was stupid, it was impossible, to think that she could be one of those women she'd seen on this show falling for a man wanted by so many others.

In the end, his fifteen included Erica, Kristina, Lorelei, Grace, and a bevy of others who seemed infinitely more beautiful and confident than she did. She watched the rejected ten leave through the front door, their bags already loaded in a van before they'd even had time to unpack. The party continued another hour, with plenty of champagne to celebrate. When Patrick left to go next door, he caught her eye with the heated intensity of a physical touch. Her heart lurched, and she downed the last gulp of bubbly in her glass. She knew she would have a serious headache tomorrow.

"Mr. Stiles," she said, catching sight of the producer. She walked over to the man to have a private word—or to give him a piece of her mind, she hadn't decided.

"What the hell happened?" she growled under her breath.

"He chose you," Stiles said simply. "And you two have killer chemistry on the screen. You can't manufacture that, Teresa."

"Well, you need to go through with the plan I agreed to, and talk to Patrick. Tell him whatever lie will convince him to let me walk away."

Stiles's eyebrows rose. "You didn't like him?"

"Of course I did. I mean, have you seen the guy? But I'm here to do a job, and it's not to husband hunt."

"I've arranged for you to bunk with Grace in her room," he said, dangling the carrot. "You wouldn't have near that access if you chose to just stand around watching from the sidelines. And besides, Grace would definitely know then that you are here on her father's orders."

Teresa frowned. "But as I said before, I don't want Patrick to think I'm here to get married. That wouldn't be fair to him, not to mention to the ten women he just sent home who _wanted_ to be here."

"But the _chemistry_ , love. The _chem-is-try_. This will make phenomenal television. Why don't you let me explain the situation fully to Patrick, see what he thinks?"

She sighed and thought a moment. Being able to room with Grace would definitely be a plus; she couldn't unobtrusively get closer, couldn't offer better protection than that.

"Ok. If he completely understands where I am in this, I'll stay. But he can't know why I'm really here, for security reasons. Also…if Grace leaves the show, so do I. Is that a deal?"

Stiles brightened, and she didn't miss the gleam of victory in his eyes. "Excellent. I'll go speak to him at once. For now, go with the other girls and find your room. I'll see that your belongings are sent up to you. They're in your rental car, right?"

"Yes. Thank you." And she fished into her pocket for the keys.

"Great, great. And I'll see to it personally that you are supplied with appropriate clothing for the rest of your stay. Now, I'm off then to speak with Patrick. Good night, Teresa. And thank you."

She nodded, and, taking a deep breath, she went back inside the house.

Xxxxxxxxxxx

Stiles knocked on Patrick Jane's door and Mr. Right himself opened it, his tie and suit jacket now gone, his shirt unbuttoned. He looked tired, but very pleased.

"Bret," he said in surprise. "What brings you here? I thought everything went very well." The producer crossed the threshold into the marble foyer.

"Yes, yes it did. Swimmingly, Patrick. I've come, though, with news of a rather delicate nature."

They sat in the high-ceilinged living room of the ultra-modern home, everything low and white with plenty of chrome accents.

"What news?" Patrick asked.

"Well, there's no easy way to tell you this, but I'm afraid we had to concoct a bit of a ruse at the party this evening. It was purely a production decision, not meant to do any harm, though now it seems to have backfired on us."

Patrick tensed, his eyes narrowing. He didn't mind deceiving others with his tricks, but he had difficulty being tricked himself. "What sort of ruse?"

"You see, the lady you chose as the recipient of your First Key—"

Patrick's stomach clenched. "Teresa?"

"Yes, the lovely Teresa. I'm afraid she was a last-minute addition to the lineup, not an official contestant at all. The original girl had dropped out due to a medical emergency, and Teresa was here on set-a lovely, single woman who agreed to step in. We were going to have her leave, but then you did the unexpected and gave her the First Key…"

Patrick struggled to control his disappointment. Teresa hadn't been here to find love, and so certainly hadn't been thinking of marriage. Had the attraction between them just been an act on her part then? He shook his head slightly. No. The attraction had definitely been real, and very mutual. No one was that good of an actor.

"But the good news is, she's agreed to stay on," Stiles continued, "so long as you were made aware of the true circumstances of her continuing here."

"She liked me then," Patrick stated. "Enough to keep going on a reality show she wasn't prepared for?"

Stiles grinned. "It would seem so."

"So, who is she really?"

"Now that, my friend, is up to her to disclose if she wishes. Like all the other women, she must decide what to share about herself. Except for the unusual way she became a contestant, from here on out, it's business as usual. So what do you say? Can you forgive us our deception?"

"That depends. Are you paying her?"

Stiles couldn't stop the flicker of guilt. "We did, this time, but only because it was such an imposition on her, and she was doing us a tremendous favor. But I promise, Patrick, I'll make it clear to her that from here on out, she'll be treated just as the other girls."

Patrick still wasn't completely satisfied. "Because if we're paying these women—well, you know what that would say about them, not to mention _me_."

"Yes, yes, of course. I understand your meaning, which is why it has always been out policy not to pay the contestants."

Patrick regarded the older man, gauging the sincerity beneath the catlike mask of a man long involved in the cutthroat entertainment industry. To say he was difficult to read was an understatement. He supposed it was the genuine flash of guilt he'd witnessed, suggesting not all of Stiles's humanity had been stripped away.

"Ok…she can stay on, if that's what she really wants."

Stiles clapped his hands once in triumph. "Fantastic! I don't think you'll regret it. And let me just say, there was an obvious spark between you. Stranger things have happened, and she may well turn out to be your soul mate."

Stiles rose, and Patrick joined him to walk him out. "Good on you for accepting the challenge," the producer said, reaching out his hand for a warm shake.

"I came here to find the woman for me, which was already a risk in itself," replied Patrick. "A little hiccup isn't going to stand in the way of my finding her."

"Well, good luck to you both. And I'll see you tomorrow, Patrick. Good night."

"Good night."

Patrick closed the door behind him, wondering once more about Teresa. She certainly had made the deepest first impression, and now he knew why. She hadn't appeared as desperate to impress as the other women, so she'd felt free to be herself. Of course, this intrigued a man like Patrick even more. And since she had agreed to stay on, she must have at least been curious to see where their mutual attraction would lead them.

He smiled, remembering a pair of soft green eyes. He was looking forward to the journey, himself.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"But she was only supposed to do one show," Mashburn said angrily. He was sitting on the plush white couch in Stiles's trailer, parked next to his own and a few others in the driveway of Mr. Right's borrowed house.

Stiles poured himself a glass of whiskey, not bothering to offer some to Mashburn. The man needed to be fresh as a daisy on camera tomorrow.

"Don't get your pants in a twist. You'll have your pick of the litter after our Mr. Right's done with them, just like always."

"But Teresa's different," he insisted. "She's not one of them, if you know what I mean."

"Quite," Stiles agreed, sipping his drink. "Which is why we'll have a ratings monster with this pairing. I believe our biggest problem will be keeping the show going to its conclusion when obviously Mr. Jane only has eyes for Ms. Lisbon. Which is why you need to play your part a bit harder, my friend. Encourage other pairings. Nudge Mr. Jane toward some of the other women. Given your interest in the fair Teresa, I'd say this may work to your benefit as well."

Mashburn frowned in confusion. "So now you _don't_ want him with her? If that's the case, let her go now; let _me_ have her. I saw her first." Stiles's brows rose at the host's petulance.

"I believe it's up to Ms. Lisbon whether she wants to pursue Mr. Right. But what I am saying is, the path to love has to appear a bit bumpy, so that the payoff is more gratifying and thus draws more viewers. I shouldn't have to explain to you what makes good television. In the meantime, keep it in your pants, will you? At least until Mr. Jane makes his choice."

"Fine," said Mashburn, but his brain was working overtime at all the possible angles for keeping Romeo and Juliet apart. It would be a delicate dance, working both sides. Sort of like being a double agent. His lips formed a devious little smile, and Stiles's eyes narrowed.

"Don't bollocks up my show, Walter," he warned tightly, pointing a commanding finger from the same hand that held his whiskey.

Mashburn rose and moved toward the door. "I wouldn't think of it, Bret."

But Stiles wasn't convinced. His host would bear close watching.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Teresa pushed open the half-closed door of her new quarters. She could hear her roommates chatting tiredly about the evening, about the handsome Patrick Jane, but all talking ceased when she entered the room. She could feel the waves of antipathy flowing toward her from every direction, save from that of Grace Van Pelt.

"Hi," Teresa said politely to the room at large. "I guess I'm your new roomie. I'm Teresa."

"We know who you are," said Lorelei coolly.

Teresa surveyed the women with the eye of a trained CBI profiler. Lorelei had a toughness about her that might scare other, more easily intimidated women. She had a quick temper and would be very territorial of her conquests. Erica, on the other hand, was calculating-coolness personified, and you would never really know whether she truly liked you or not. Her mystery and charm likely attracted many men, and she used that charm to control and manipulate them. Kristina was definitely more laid-back, with a latent hippy air about her. Peace and love and all that. But Teresa would be a fool not to look below the surface, where she would probably find a stubborn, determined woman who went after what she wanted.

And finally, there was Grace. Given her family background, one might assume she was spoiled and self-centered. Not so. There was an inherent sweetness about her, a desire to please that was completely genuine. But she would be no pushover; her daddy had taught her to stand up for herself as well as for others who were being treated unfairly. If this were to be a pleasant experience, she would have to make friends with all of them, starting, of course, with Grace.

"I'm Grace, Teresa," the redhead said with a friendly smile. "I claimed this set of bunkbeds, but you can have the choice of the bottom or top bunk. I don't care."

Teresa had been in this kind of configuration before—a room with grown-up bunks-both during her police academy days and her CBI training. She knew that taller people were more comfortable getting in and out of the bottom bunks, so she graciously chose the top.

"Thanks," Teresa said.

Kristina and Lorelei shared the other bunkbeds, and Erica had claimed the single remaining bed with an understated air of entitlement. The room was large, but with this many women and their clothes, hair products, and makeup, it would be a cozy fit. Worst of all, there was only one bathroom to accommodate all of their daily ablutions and a single mirror for the necessary primping.

 _Fun,_ Teresa thought darkly. But like her mother always said, she should make the best of whatever her circumstances.

A light rap on the door broke the tension, and Teresa turned to see that her bag from her car had been delivered. She tossed it up on her bunk.

"So, what's your story?" asked Lorelei, from her bottom bunk. Kristina was much taller than her, so it told a lot about each woman that Lorelei was on the bottom. "Why'd you come so late?"

Teresa decided she'd tell the closest thing she could to the truth. "The girl who was supposed to be here got sick, so they asked me last minute. I wasn't expecting to be here, so I don't have much stuff."

"You seem to be pretty chummy with Mr. Stiles," said Erica casually, but Teresa felt like a butterfly pinned to a board under her probing gaze.

"I was just asking him how I'm going to be able to be on the show without appropriate things to wear. He said he'll find some things for me." She shrugged. "Guess I'll have to pay for it later."

Erica and Lorelei exchanged knowing, slightly catty glances. Teresa knew what they must be thinking. _So let them_ , she thought in annoyance. She wasn't here for them. She was here for Grace. At least, that's what she had to keep telling herself.

"Where are you from, Teresa?" asked Grace with genuine interest.

"Sacramento."

"Really? Me too! I'm going to law school in San Francisco right now though."

"Nice to have a hometown girl around," Teresa said.

"I wonder if we know the same people."

Teresa smiled. "It's a big city. Who knows?" But Teresa definitely didn't travel in the same circles as a senator's daughter.

"Well, we'll chat later and see." The two women exchanged warm grins.

"I'm Kristina," came the mellow voice from Lorelei's top bunk. "I'm from the Bay area."

"I love San Francisco," said Teresa. "I used to work there."

"Oh, really? Do tell," said Erica, removing her earrings and placing them in an expensive jewelry case.

"Yeah, what do you do?" piped in Lorelei.

Teresa was thinking quickly. She'd had little time to consider whether she'd tell them her real job. She supposed it would be all right to tell them the truth. She was no longer in law enforcement, which usually either put people on their guard around her or fascinated them so much that all they wanted to do was hear about horrendous crimes she'd investigated.

"I'm a private investigator," she admitted.

"Fascinating," said Kristina. "I love a good mystery."

"Me too," added Grace. "I actually considered going into law enforcement, but my parents thought I should get finish my law degree before I made that decision."

Teresa nodded. "You can always do that. I know the FBI would probably be interested in someone with your education."

"I'll keep that in mind. Thanks, Teresa." She said the last on a yawn, then, embarrassed, excused herself profusely.

Teresa chuckled. "Don't worry about it. It's been a long day."

The women began to remove their elegant gowns now that the cameras were unlikely to film them anymore that night. None of them save she and Grace seemed to show any modesty about their bare bodies, and it took on the atmosphere of a girls' locker room. Three of the girls were nighttime shower-takers, and the other two just wanted to take off their clothes and crawl into bed, Teresa being one of them. Being a morning person, she'd get up tomorrow before everyone and be able to take her time.

"Congratulations on getting the First Key," Grace called up to her bunk, as the young woman awaited her turn in the bathroom. "Patrick obviously liked you a lot. Was the feeling mutual?"

"He's a good guy," she hedged. "Not as full of himself as I expected a celebrity to be. And he must have liked you too, because here you are."

Grace laughed. "True. I guess the first real date tomorrow will give one of us a better idea. I wonder who he will pick."

Teresa smiled secretly as she stared up at the ceiling, the effects of the champagne and the equally intoxicating meeting with Patrick Jane finally taking their toll. As her eyes drifted closed, her last thought was, _I hope it's me._

Xxxxxxxxxx

Around ten o'clock the next morning, a knock on the front door heralded the arrival of Walter Mashburn. The camera crew was already set up and rolling, and most of the women had managed to look semi-alert, blindly sipping their hot coffee. Teresa had been up for hours, and had even managed to sneak off to Stiles to ask to make her daily report to Senator Van Pelt and to check in with Cho and Rigsby. Her phone had been confiscated, as with the rest of the girls, but Teresa had made it clear that her allegiance to the senator would take priority, and Stiles, of course, agreed. No use ruffling the feathers of such a powerful man, he had said. If she was discovered, she would tell the other women she had a very sick brother. This story could also cover her should she have to leave suddenly, coincidentally at the same time Grace did.

Now, as she took her place on the couch next to her charge, Walter Mashburn announced the recipient of the first one-on-one date with Patrick. To her surprise, Mashburn looked directly at Teresa.

Once again, the jealousy and animosity of some of the other women was palpable, but Teresa was too excited to care. She felt her heartbeat pounding in her temples.

"Grab a jacket, Teresa," said Mashburn. "You and Patrick are flying to Lake Tahoe!"

The more gracious girls congratulated her, but Teresa had her misgivings. She would be away from her job of guarding Grace for an entire day. Why hadn't she thought of that possibility before? She would have to make sure Stiles knew to double the guards while she was gone.

"Aren't you excited?" Mashburn asked, and she didn't miss the seeming satisfaction at her less than exuberant reaction.

Teresa remembered herself, remembered to keep in mind the cameras watching her every move and expression. "Oh, of course, Walter. I'm just in shock, I guess. Tahoe is beautiful this time of year."

"And you get an entire day alone with Patrick," voiced a girl sitting in the couch opposite.

"That too," Teresa said awkwardly, flushing. The other women around her laughed, though Erica and Lorelei merely smiled…coldly.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

Thirty minutes later, Patrick met her outside at the limo that would take them to a private airport. He waved to the other girls who were clamoring for a glimpse of him through the front windows. Teresa looked up at him as he held the car door open for her. He was casually dressed in expensive jeans, a navy-blue Henley, leather jacket and soft brown oxfords. Teresa wore jeans as well, with comfortable flats and a simple maroon silk blouse—her usual work attire. She held her own leather jacket, and she hoped there would be something beautiful for her to change into later waiting for them at the hotel. It would be great if she got a chance to shop in Tahoe for more casual fashion choices, because this was the nicest outfit she'd brought.

"Hello," said Patrick, hugging her small frame to his. He smelled divine.

"Hi," she said shyly, forcing herself to pull away from his warm embrace. She wondered if she would ever get used to the cameras.

He helped her into the car and slid in next to her. The driver sped off and the camera attached to the seat in front of them took over where the cameramen at the house had left off. Another car from the show trailed behind them.

"Have you been to Tahoe before?" he asked her, while his eyes drank her in.

She prayed she didn't sound too breathless, and felt annoyed with herself for letting a man have this much control over her body's reactions.

"Yes. A few times," she replied. "It's one of my favorite places."

He smiled. "Mine too. You gamble?"

She laughed. "Not for years. I used to take a roll of nickels with me and play the slot machines for hours. I'd drink the free drinks the waitresses brought me and not feel too bad when I lost it all. Last time I went to a casino, it was all about the credit cards and complicated computerized machines. It takes all the fun out of it."

Patrick laughed. "Nothing beats the satisfying clink of coins piling up when you win."  
"Exactly."

"I'm more of a blackjack man myself, but since I became successful at my job, no one wants me at their table anymore."

Teresa grinned. "They're always wondering if you're cheating."

He grinned sheepishly and she laughed. "You _are_ a cheater, aren't you?"

"I like to call myself a card sharp," he said in mock offense.

"Same thing."

"Well, we won't have time to gamble anyway. I have other plans for you, my dear."

His words were innocent enough, but the way he was looking at her suggested long, sensual nights rolling about on smooth, luxurious sheets. She could have sworn he was reading her mind, for his lips quirked a little, and she felt an answering blush infuse her cheeks.

They flew in style on a private jet, and they never seemed to run out of things to say. Of course, the cameras were still disconcerting and somewhat inhibiting, but Teresa tried to forget they were there. Occasionally, she would feel a flash of guilt as she thought of how she was derelict in her duty to Grace, and once, Patrick noticed the shadow cross her features.

"What's wrong?" he asked. She had been looking pensively out the window at the endless stretch of desert far beneath the plane.

She hesitated.

"You're feeling guilty about something," he offered in the silence. "You didn't leave someone special waiting for you at home, did you?"

She was surprised into a bark of laughter at the absurdity of his suggestion. He was so way off base with that, that she wondered how he'd ever gotten his mentalist reputation.

"No. Not at all. Just thinking about my business and all the responsibilities I'm abandoning for this."

For once, Patrick's smile didn't reach his eyes. "I hope it's worth it."

She saw that he was genuinely concerned, and felt her heart flutter in response.

"So far, so good," she said with what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

He visibly relaxed, sitting back in the plush leather seat across from her. A table between them held more champagne and a platter of hors d'oeuvre and strawberry tartlets. She noticed Patrick had no trouble putting away the food. He ate with acute appreciation, savoring every morsel. She watched in fascination as he chewed, licking at the crumbs on his lips. She had never found a man's eating habits particularly sexy—until now.

"How did you guess I was once in law enforcement last night?"

He eyed her, considering.

"It's in your bearing. Your posture is almost military, but I ruled that out since you didn't have quite the serious stance of a soldier. There is a confidence in your physicality, a deceptive strength in your diminutive form, a certain…stoicism written in the fine lines around your eyes. This comes from training, but also from someone with a strong belief in right and wrong. Hence, law enforcement."

She stared at him in wonder a moment. "We could have used you in the CBI," she commented. Then: "Lines around my eyes?"

He reached out a long finger and lightly touched between her eyebrows. "And one neat worry line that appears when you're deep in serious thought."

She frowned. "Pointing out a woman's wrinkles is not the way to her heart."

He grinned unapologetically. "I didn't say I found them unattractive. Believe me, the character in your face is much more enticing to me than the Botox beauties I interact with on a daily basis."

"Nice save," she said.

"Phew. Things were going south rather quickly there for a minute," he replied dryly. "Now, I'm supposed to be enjoying my time off of work. Have pity on me and tell me how a Chicago girl ends up in law enforcement in California."

"It's pretty boring, actually."  
"Let me be the judge of that."

She took a deep breath, let it out in a sigh. "After college in Chicago, I wanted to get as far away from the city as I could afford. To make a long story short, I ended up in San Francisco, enrolled in the police academy. I worked there for about five years, and then made the move to the California Bureau of Investigation. Eventually, I headed my own unit, but things…didn't work out, and I recently started my own PI business with some former CBI colleagues."

He could tell she'd left a lot of blanks unfilled, but to his credit, he didn't pry. He moved the conversation to lighter topics, and before she knew it, they had landed at Lake Tahoe. Waiting for them was a sleek black Porsche, which he expertly drove on the curvy roads around the lake, a car from the show following them once more. Teresa grabbed the arm rest in fright a few times, avoiding looking at the sheer drops that had her picturing their car plummeting through space into the lake far below. At last, he pulled into a scenic overlook, where the awe-inspiring Emerald Bay stretched out before them like something from a dream. A camera crew was already set up, awaiting their arrival, Brenda Shettrick giving them last-minute instructions.

Teresa and Patrick stood at the edge of the low stone barricade, admiring the view of distant snow topped mountains and the serene lake dotted with boats upon the deep, cold water. A gentle spring breeze rustled their hair, and she was glad for her warm jacket. Still, the sun was warm as they spread out a blanket and opened the picnic basket Patrick retrieved from the back of the Porsche.

More wine and tasty finger sandwiches, pasta salad, and fruit made an elegant repast. Once again, she found pleasure in watching him eat, his appetite apparently far from sated. Patrick picked up the strain of their earlier conversation on the plane.

"So, how has an incredible woman like you avoided marriage all these years?"

She was momentarily distracted by the way the sunlight turned his eyes to the color of weathered copper, his hair to spun gold.

"Teresa?" he prompted, amusement in his voice.

She shook her head a little, cleared her throat in embarrassment at being caught staring. He was truly one of the most beautiful men she'd ever seen.

"Sorry. I uh—what?"

He patiently repeated the question.

"Oh, well. My career, mainly. Don't get me wrong, I've had relationships before, but no one could compete with the demands of my job for long. It's been a conscious choice, remaining single. But with my recent life changes, well, I've realized that I've missed out on things. I'd like to catch up, while I'm still young enough to enjoy it."

He nodded, as if her words had confirmed what he'd already surmised. He reached for her hand, sliding his deft fingers between hers. Despite the smallness of her hand compared to his, they fit together well.

"I guess we're coming from the same place, in that regard," he said. "I've worked hard for my success, but now I find it's not enough to make me happy. I want…more."

"Is this why you wanted the producers to find women for you who were under forty?"

His eyes widened, taken aback at her honesty in calling him out. Then, he chuckled. "I won't ask how you found that out, Miss PI, but I'm not ashamed to admit that I would like to have a family, and a younger woman would be more likely to give that to me." He seemed nervous for the first time since she'd met him. "Now, all of America is going to send me hate mail after they see this."

She smiled at her power to take him off balance. "Let them be mad. You can't really argue with biology, though I've personally heard of more than one woman in their forties-"

"Stop! You're only making it worse."

She laughed. "Okay. Maybe they'll take pity on you and edit this part out."

He glanced over at the cameras. "Doubtful," he said under his breath.

"You know," she continued mischievously, "you could always consider adop—"

But before she could finish her sentence, he'd reached out and pulled her head toward him, capturing her mouth and effectively stifling her. His lips were hot and full, moist and redolent of sweet wine, his hand sliding into her hair as he held her still and ravaged her mouth. She gasped as the tip of his seeking tongue touched hers, the kiss suddenly deepening as a low growl hummed from his throat. She forgot herself, forgot where they were and who was watching in the wonder of his kiss.

Too soon, he pulled away, both of them breathing heavily. He looked in satisfaction at her dazed eyes, one finger beneath her small chin.

"You were saying?"

She laughed shakily as her wits slowly returned, though her heart still pounded like a drum in her ears.

"Well, now you've done it," she said. "There's no way they're cutting this part out…"

 **A/N: Yes, that was fast, but they're under certain time constraints here, lol. Hope you enjoyed their first kiss. Next chapter: while the cats are away…**

 **Thanks for reading!**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I feel the need to apologize once more for the lateness of this chapter. I'm in the middle of a family crisis and a lot of pressure at work, so at the end of the day, I have nothing else to give. This morning I had a little free time and my mind was quiet enough to sit down to write for the first time in several days. I hope this tides you over until I can find another spot of time. Thanks for all the kind reviews for Chapter 3. They've been a blessing of kindness in these tough times.**

 **Chapter 4**

The scene was cut immediately after their kiss, but Teresa and Patrick remained on their picnic blanket while the crew packed away the cameras to prepare for the continuation of their date into the evening hours in town. Their food and dishes were taken, and still they remained where they sat, holding hands and talking softly without their body mics picking up their every word for once.

"I hate to break this up," said Brenda, "but you two need to settle into your hotel rooms and change for dinner."

Patrick rose reluctantly, pulling Teresa to her feet as well. They both laughed as they shook out their legs, cramped from sitting too long in one position. Teresa would ride back with the crew, while Patrick drove the Porsche. Before he left, he leaned down and kissed her cheek.

"Until tonight," he whispered. She couldn't help but shiver as his warm breath stirred across her ear.

"Yes," she said. And with a squeeze of her hand and a last, intense glance from blue-green eyes, he left her. She watched his elegant walk, admired the graceful way he slid into the sportscar. He flashed her a grin and a jaunty wave as he revved the engine and pulled out onto the main road. She shook her head and laughed at the stereotypically masculine display.

 _You are in deep, deep trouble, Teresa,_ she told herself. But for the moment, she didn't really care.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Meanwhile, back at the women's house in LA, Walter Mashburn was causing his own kind of trouble. The LA crew was filming a few scenes with the remaining women in the house: their talk about the date they were missing, the prospects for the group date to come, and a bit of catty commentary on each other and the whole Mr. Right process. Mashburn found a moment to pull the lovely Erica aside.

He'd noted the sexual chemistry between her and Jane, and, per Stiles's instructions, found her one of the most likely contestants to heighten the drama and put a stumbling block between Mr. Right and Teresa Lisbon. He spoke to her in the shade of a cabana near the pool, and he didn't hide the look of appreciation for her amazing body clad in a black string bikini.

"How's it going so far, Erica?"

Her expression was one of knowing amusement; she was used to the attentions of charming men.

"It's been lovely, Walter," she said, her voice naturally seductive. "Mr. Jane is an amazing man."

"Yes. One more than worth fighting for, despite his attentions to some of the other women."

"Yes," she said wryly. "That's why I'm here: to fight."

He nodded. "You know, from what I'm hearing from Tahoe, their date is going very well. He's even kissed her already."

He saw the unmistakable flash of jealousy in her brown eyes, then immediately, a look of dark determination.

"Is that so?"

"Seems to me you should step it up a bit. Don't let Teresa ruin your chances."

She arched an expressive brow. "Trying to stir things up, aren't you?"

Mashburn's smile was blatantly mischievous. "Naturally. That's part of my job. But I speak the truth, my dear. I have inside information that you'll be part of the group date tomorrow. With Teresa out of the picture, you'll have your chance to move in for the kill."

She frowned, genuinely surprised. "He didn't choose me for the other one-on-one date?"

He shook his head. "No, sorry. That date's reserved for one of your roomies, Grace."

At the sound of the redhead's name, Erica sought her out with her catlike gaze as she sat in a lounge chair in the shade near the pool, happily reading a romance novel and sipping lemonade. The brunette's eyes narrowed. "That mealy mouthed creature? How could he? She has shoulders like a linebacker."

Mashburn chuckled. "Save the cattiness for the cameras. Just giving you a heads-up. I like you, Erica. You're clearly the most beautiful and accomplished woman here, and I think you have an excellent chance of bagging Mr. Right."

As Erica mentally shot daggers at the innocent Grace, something suddenly occurred to her, and she looked up at Mashburn.

"What's in it for you, Walter? Do you want Grace for yourself?" Then a slow, grinch-like smile momentarily spoiled her perfect features. "Aw, it's Teresa, isn't it?" She held up her hand at his ready denial. "Don't bother with excuses. I'm a professional matchmaker, and I can tell when a man wants a woman. But your secret's safe with me, and I'd be happy to give you a hand with this. I think it will benefit us both if I step up my game."

Mashburn grinned. "I knew I picked the right woman for the job."

"Leave it to me, Walter. After I'm through with Patrick tomorrow, he won't know what hit him."

He watched her saunter away to join the unsuspecting Grace—her other competition. He felt a little guilty about siccing Erica on her, but he was fairly certain a woman with Grace's character would overcome such manipulations. Besides, it was obvious to him that she wasn't the one for Jane. The kind of man he was, he'd end up ripping the poor girl's heart to shreds. Better she left early to save her even more pain later.

Turning his attention away from Erica, Mashburn scanned the pool area for his next prospect: Lorelei. He saw her at the open bar, flirting with the bartender while she swigged domestic beer from a bottle. He would deliver the same inside information to her as he had to Erica, then he'd move on to Kristina, another of Teresa's roommates. From years of hosting _Mr. Right_ , Mashburn knew that nothing would beat down a woman faster than the animus of jealous women. Teresa would soon see that no man was worth putting up with such petty bitchiness, not even the great Patrick Jane. By the time the damage was done, Teresa would be begging to leave the show, and _he_ would be there to pick up the pieces.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

That night, Teresa and Patrick enjoyed a dinner of rainbow trout caught fresh from Lake Tahoe. They were alone in a restaurant atop the highest casino in South Lake Tahoe, the lake sparkling beneath a full moon. As the cameras captured their date, filled with much laughter and lively conversation, they held hands beneath the tablecloth where no one else could see-their own little space of privacy.

"This has been a great day," she said sincerely, adjusting the strap of the green evening dress the show had provided. His eyes were drawn to her creamy shoulder, and he resisted the urge to press his lips to that smooth patch of bare skin.

"An understatement," he replied. "I don't see how any other date could top this." Beneath the table, his hand tightened in hers.

So what if this isn't what the viewers would want to hear, given this was only his first date on the show? What he said came from the heart, and Patrick knew himself well enough to know that it was unlikely he would stray from this opinion, even after he'd dated the other beautiful women awaiting his attentions in LA. For the first time in his life he'd fallen victim to a cliché, finding himself in love at first sight. It was a joyously disconcerting feeling, and the prospect of the weeks ahead dating other women stretched before him like the unrelenting sands of Death Valley. If it weren't for the contract he'd signed, he'd quit the show this minute and take her to his hotel room, locking her away from the cameras and ravishing her body to his heart's content.

"What do you look for in a man?" he asked Teresa, trying to distract himself from his erotic visions.

She shrugged. "I guess I don't really have a type as far as looks go. I like a good sense of humor, a man with a moral compass…I've dated all kinds of men though; none of them serious."

She was lying, or at least, _omitting._

"I don't believe that," he said, gauging her expression closely for tells. "There had to be at least one…"

She blushed prettily, a characteristic that he found increasingly captivating, and he wondered how she would look in the flush of sexual pleasure. He felt his own color heightening at the thought. He took a quiet, shaky breath.

"Okay," she admitted, "I was engaged once, back in Chicago."

"Aww," he said, "part of the reason you left for parts unknown."

"Yes, I was running away from a lot of things, but he didn't deserve that. One of my many regrets, I suppose."

"So why did you run from him?" he asked kindly. He was the last person to judge someone else's failed relationships.

Teresa hesitated. She hadn't spoken to her ex-fiancé since the day she'd left Chicago, and the last thing she wanted to do was hurt him more should he happen to see her on this show. "It was nothing he had done. He was unlucky enough to be a part of my whole messed up childhood, and I just wanted to start my life over again. He was an unfortunate casualty." She quickly changed the subject. "What about you? Tell me about your most serious relationship."

He supposed turnabout was fair play. "A girl from my own dysfunctional childhood. Her father owned the carnival I traveled with as a boy. She thought I was her ticket out of the nomad's life-the dirtiness of the midway, the air of dishonesty that pervades everything from the carnie games to the overpriced ride tickets. I was doing well as a conman, but she saw something in me, a desire to rise above my circumstances and become successful in life. But at the time, I wouldn't give up the carnival life, not even for her. She escaped to go to college somewhere along the Northern California carnie circuit. She's a teacher now, happily married to some dependable accountant with 2.4 kids. I wish her nothing but the best."

"And now you're on a reality show trying to find again what you gave up as a kid."

He grinned at the shared irony. "Ditto for you, sweetheart."

She laughed, and raised her glass of white wine. "To the ignorance of youth," she toasted.

"And to the wisdom of the aged," he countered. Their glasses clinked before they drank heartily.

"What's with your continuing references to my advanced years?" she teased.

"I could say something about fine wines and old cheese…"

"Please don't. I for one haven't been fermenting on a shelf in a basement all these years; I've been living. I earned every line of my crow's feet, and you'd be shocked if I missed a month of hair dye."

"Like I said earlier, I love everything I see."

They smiled warmly at each other, before he leaned over the table and gently pressed his lips to hers. His heart trembled with a tenderness he'd never felt before, not even in the bloom of first love atop a long-ago Ferris wheel.

"Not the cellulite though," she whispered against his mouth. "I don't feel I deserved that at all."

He laughed and kissed her with jubilant passion.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Teresa arrived late at the house in LA, another of Patrick's keys tucked reverently away in her borrowed handbag. She would be safe once more at the next Key Ceremony. Most of the other women were still awake in the main living area, many with cocktails or late-night snacks; the show didn't skimp on food and alcohol. She was relieved to see Grace safe and sound, and she felt another flash of guilt for shirking her duty that day. As much as she wanted to sneak off to bed, Teresa was inundated with requests to recount her date in minute detail. She complied as much as was polite, leaving out the kisses, most of the conversations, and the secret hand-holding. Of course, the ever-present cameras captured everything.

"Did he kiss you?" asked Erica pointedly, idling swirling her glass of red wine.

"I don't kiss and tell," she said politely, but Erica didn't miss her unspoken _back off._

The other girls naturally didn't let her get away with that, but she resisted and, after a glance at Grace to reassure herself the young woman had survived the day without Teresa's supervision, finally extricated herself with the claim of extreme exhaustion.

"Yeah, I'll bet she's tired," Lorelei murmured after Teresa left the room, downing a shot of whiskey. "I'm sure that man would wear any woman out."

"Oh, you don't think they slept together already," said Grace with a frown.

"Well if she didn't, she's pretty stupid, passing up that opportunity. Someday, when _I_ get him alone…" She left her lascivious intent up to their imaginations. The other girls tittered as they conjured their own fantasies.

"Teresa doesn't seem like the kind of girl to sleep with someone on the first date," Grace countered. She blushed when she realized what that said about Lorelei, but the other woman merely smirked at her naivete.

Erica chuckled. "Teresa may be a goody-goody, but she's no innocent. And even if she were, Lorelei is right—a man like Patrick Jane could tempt any woman, even a saint. Have you seen the man's hands?"

The rest of the women chuckled in understanding. Grace stood up from the couch then. "I think I'll head to bed too. Good night everyone."

There was a chorus of _good-nights_ , save from two of her roommates, who were busy contemplating their own plans for Patrick Jane on tomorrow's group date.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Did you enjoy your date, Teresa," Mashburn asked, catching her off camera at the foot of the stairs. His eyes devoured how her beaded dress clung to her petite curves.

"Yes. Lake Tahoe is always beautiful."

He ignored her irrelevant reply and got to the point. "I heard you two kissed—more than once."

She met his eyes coolly. "That's between Patrick and me."

"And millions of viewers…"

"Well, this _is_ a dating show. People kiss on dates."

He approached her, away from where the cameras were still filming the women's late-night conversation, to be edited and inserted carefully at a later date. His hand dropped casually to her shoulder, fingering the strap at the same shoulder Jane had lusted after earlier. His dark eyes gazed compellingly into hers, and she remembered why she'd been so attracted to him before. But one kiss from Patrick Jane, and the desire for all other men had dissipated like morning dew.

"But I saw you first," he whispered, his tone teasing, though Teresa rightly sensed the hint of possessiveness beneath the casualness.

She glanced pointedly at his hand on her shoulder, but he was slow to drop it, his fingers stealing a light caress on her toned arm. She stiffened.

"Good night, Walter." But she gave him a kind smile. It was he who had first talked her into doing the show, after all.

He watched her ascend the stairs without looking back, but he wasn't deterred. Jane might have swept her off her feet a little, but Mashburn still had his secret weapons on standby for tomorrow's date. He turned away, only to find Grace Van Pelt, open-mouthed at what she had witnessed. He tamped down his triumph, smiling politely at Jane's next choice. He was a big fan of serendipity.

"Are you and Teresa-?" she began, too shocked to complete her sentence.

"No, no. Of course not. We just know each other, from before she came on the show. We're old… _friends._ " He allowed his salacious implication to sink in, wished Grace a casual good-night, and strolled back to the action in the living room.

All in all, Mashburn thought happily, it had been a very productive day.

 **A/N: I know this isn't a long chapter, but I thought it was better than nothing for now. After next weekend, I'm hopeful that things will be a little quieter for me. Thanks again for your support, patience, and kind reviews.**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Hello! Hope you haven't forgotten this fic. Things are settling down in my life right now, thank God, so hopefully I'll be able to write more often. Thank you for your expressions of sympathy and understanding, as well as your kind reviews. My Dad was in the hospital for about three weeks with heart problems, among other things, but he is home at last, and doing much better. I hope this chapter was worth the wait.**

 **Chapter 5**

Teresa lay in her bunk, staring up at the ceiling in the dim light of a small reading lamp she'd left on for her roommates. She could still hear the occasional laughter and low murmur of female voices coming from downstairs, but that wasn't what was keeping her awake. It was late, and she knew if she didn't catch some sleep, she'd be miserable tomorrow, but she couldn't turn her brain off, couldn't stop thinking about the feel of Patrick's lips on hers, the touch of his fingers as they wove through her hair. She felt a chill of lingering reaction, a contrasting pool of warmth low in her belly at the thought of him. His smell; his smooth, rich, voice; his soft blonde curls; his captivating sea green eyes—everything about him seemed almost perfect to her. This, she knew, was unrealistic, especially since they had only known each other a matter of hours. Her cop's brain was telling her— _warning_ her—that this was only a combination of infatuation and prolonged celibacy. She was on a television show, for God's sake; nothing could be further from a realistic situation. But her feelings were real. Her physical reactions were definitely real.

She'd seen this very thing happen on _Mr. Right_ before, and she'd wanted to believe it was real for those other women before her, but there had always been a smidgeon of doubt when she watched, a belief that the show was just catering to the romantic hearts of women like her. In truth, not all of the romances had worked out; some had fizzled in the face of real world life, some had ended in a maelstrom of drama. Some initial connections had died natural deaths after Mr. Right had been unable to resist other women set before him like tempting confections. This could very well be her own fate; but her innate optimism, which she had always been able to hold on to despite the blood and hardship she had witnessed in her life, would not allow her to give up hope. And so she would risk it and continue on the show with Patrick, whatever may come.

Thus resolved, Teresa's eyes drifted shut, her body relaxing into a hopeful sleep. She must not have been out very long when she was startled awake by a thump and some drunken laughter.

"Shhh," said Lorelei, sotto voce. "You'll wake her up."

Erica replied in her own half-hearted whisper: "Are you kidding? She's sleeping like a baby, thinking she has Patrick wrapped around her little girl fingers. After tomorrow, she'll go back to being the little mouse cowering in a forgotten corner. He thinks he wants the likes of her, because she's sweet and looks like a baby deer, but men like him need a real woman in bed. And I'm ready to give him what he wants."

Lorelei chuckled, and Teresa heard the sound of straining springs as she fell ungracefully onto her lower bunk. "Not if I don't beat you to it."

Erica snorted indelicately, and Teresa heard the rustling of fabric as she removed her clothes. "You thinking of a little wager?" They weren't even bothering to keep their voices low now.

"If you think you have the balls," replied Lorelei. "I'll bet you $1,000 I can get him into bed before you can."

From Kristina's bunk came a frustrated groan, then: "Girls, a little consideration, if you don't mind. Some of us would like to get some sleep." Teresa hadn't even heard her come in.

"Yes, Mom," said Lorelei sarcastically. But she didn't modulate her tone; if anything, she spoke even louder.

"Make it five thousand," Erica countered, ignoring Kristina completely.

"Deal. But I suppose you'll want to have proof when I win."

"Ha. I'm not expecting DNA evidence or anything. No, when _I_ win," said Erica, "He'll simply admit it, and proudly."

"Hell, he'll scream it from the rooftops when I've hit that—both during _and_ after the fact. Will that be proof enough for you?"

"Oh, sure. An _oral_ admission is perfectly acceptable," said Erica to the giggling delight of both women. Soon Teresa heard the bathroom door close, and the sound of running water. Erica was doing her nightly beauty regimen. From the vicinity of Lorelei's bed, she heard nothing but snoring. Kristina had thrown a pillow over her head to muffle the disturbance.

Teresa frowned to herself. Surely Patrick would see through the disgusting overtures from these—these _sluts_. Already she knew he was one of the most intelligent men she'd ever met. He couldn't possibly fall victim to such blatant attempts at seduction. But despite her innate optimism, there was still something of the wallflower tucked deep within her, the band geek with braces who spent many a Saturday night reading Jane Austen with only her loyal dog to warm her bed. But she tamped that down, remembering her earlier resolve. Turning her back to the conniving women, she drew her covers up over her head and determinedly closed her eyes.

Soon after, Grace entered the room, noting the sleeping forms of her four roommates. She'd taken a late-night swim, hoping to clear her head regarding the confusing scene she'd witnessed of Teresa and Walter Mashburn. She'd decided it would be best to confront Teresa with her suspicions, give the other woman a chance to respond before she did what she believed would be the right thing: let Patrick know that a woman he'd shown an interest in might well be interested in someone else. After a hot shower, Grace found her own bunk, and, after turning off the light, fell into a fitful sleep.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

The thirteen women on the group date arrived in a luxury bus on a small tarmac early the next morning. _Lucky thirteen_ , Patrick thought wryly, trying without much success to put Teresa out of his mind and focus on the bounty that surrounded him. He was wearing a slate gray suit over a crisp white shirt, made more casual without his tie and vest. A gleaming private jet sat waiting for them, and he met his dates at the foot of the plane's stairs.

"How do you feel about a trip to Vegas?" he asked, and the women cheered and alternately hugged each other and him. They ascended the stairs one by one, and, amid much laughter and excited conversation, made themselves comfortable in the white leather seats. Patrick found himself surrounded by two of the more intriguing women, Erica and Lorelei, who sat next to him and across the narrow aisle.

"You must be used to traveling in the lap of luxury like this," said Erica breezily, sipping the Mimosa the flight attendant had passed out to everyone after they'd buckled up.

Patrick grinned. "Not as often as I would like. But someday I'd like to own one of these babies myself. Maybe learn to fly it too."

Lorelei immediately jumped on that line of conversation. "I fly," she told him.

And suddenly she was receiving all of Patrick's attention, as they spoke for at least ten minutes about flying lessons and pilot's licenses. Erica's smile was now frozen in place as she stewed angrily in soft leather. The plane took off, and the hour-long flight was a whirlwind of beautiful women jockeying for Mr. Right's attention. Patrick was rarely overwhelmed, but by the time they landed in Vegas, he felt almost dizzy with the sound of feminine chatter in his ears.

Two limos whisked them away to the casino where Patrick spent much of his time when he was in the city doing his show. A huge digital billboard outside the casino broadcast his image, gave sneak peeks of his illusions, welcomed the cast of _Mr. Right._ Inside the theatre, Walter Mashburn welcomed them with a smile. The cameras, on them since they left LA, caught the women's and Patrick's every reaction to their surroundings and to Mashburn's exposition.

"Welcome to Vegas! As you can see, we are in the beautiful casino where Patrick performs his show several times a year. If you've ever seen it, you know how amazing his illusions are. But he doesn't do it alone. He has assistants and audience volunteers. Well, today ladies, you are all going to train to be his helpers for the actual show tonight." There were a few gasps from the women and a smattering of frantic whispering. Patrick merely smiled.

"Whoever does the best job during rehearsal, in Patrick's opinion, will not only replace one of his regular assistants, but also get one-on-one time with him after the performance. Sound like fun?"

There was an enthusiastic chorus of "Yes!"

"But don't despair," Mashburn continued, "the rest of you will either help on stage or be plants in the audience to act as volunteers, so you'll all get the chance one way or another, to be part of the show."

Mashburn then introduced two women in colorful, scanty costumes who normally were Patrick's assistants, who would be directly responsible for the contestants' training. The illusionist himself would sit in the audience and watch as the real assistants showed them what to do during his famous disappearing Citroen illusion, the always popular invisible woman bit, and the scary cutting a woman in two trick, among other illusions.

"But before we get to the training," Mashburn added, "there's the best part: fitting you for costumes!"

The women either laughed or groaned, depending on their degree of adventurousness. A couple of hours was spent with cameras filming the women trying on their outfits for the show—always a tantalizing and funny segment with these kind of group dates. All the while, Patrick sat in the auditorium, missing Teresa. He imagined what she might have looked like in the hot red and black sequined leotard and tights, the magician's top hat resting jauntily on her dark hair. Sure, Lorelei looked smashing in it, but she didn't have Teresa's engagingly shy smile, or green eyes with the sparkle of humor. He resolutely pushed her from his thoughts and focused on the amusing antics of the women onstage as they performed with often less than stellar results.

In the end, it was Kristina who made the most impact on Patrick, her slightly dramatic though nuanced performance carefully honed from her psychic business back in San Francisco. Patrick couldn't miss the jealous looks directed at Kristina, despite the good-natured congratulations. Erica, he noted, was especially miffed, the anger practically oozing from her expertly polished pores. As he watched her eye Kristina, he felt a sudden chill down his spine, an instinctive trepidation that he couldn't ignore. This woman would bear watching.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

Back at the house in LA, Teresa and Grace lounged around the pool. Grace's date would be the following night, and Teresa, already chosen by Patrick to continue on with him on the show, felt much more relaxed and confident than Grace. But Teresa was grateful for this time with her oblivious charge so that she could keep an eye on her. She had felt decidedly derelict in her duty, and she felt the day alone with her might be a chance to redeem herself. A small camera crew filmed a little of their interactions, their comments about their time with Patrick, their hopes for a future with him.

Since both women had pale, delicate skin, they sat beneath umbrellas, sipping tropical fruit smoothies and making small talk. But Teresa felt as if Grace wanted to say something but was either too shy or too polite to say it. Had she figured out Teresa was her bodyguard? When the cameras turned off, Teresa looked over at Grace in her neighboring lounge chair.

"Something on your mind, Grace?" she asked, mentally preparing herself to explain why her bodyguard was fraternizing with Grace's prospective husband. She had no idea how she could possibly justify that.

She sighed and removed her big sunglasses. "Yes, I suppose there is. My father taught me that it's always best to level with people, so here it is. What's going on with you and Walter Mashburn?"

Teresa was momentarily startled into silence. _Huh?_

Grace swung her legs around to sit facing her. "I saw you last night, talking with Mr. Mashburn. You seemed very…cozy."

Teresa took another sip of her drink, stalling as her mind went back to the night before, replaying what Grace might have seen. "Uh, what exactly are you talking about?"

"It was near the stairs. I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but it really sounded like you two have a history, that there was some… _understanding_ between you. Please tell me I'm all wrong about this. I would hate to think that you are two-timing Patrick."

Teresa closed her eyes a moment beneath her own dark glasses. _Shit_.

"I explained how I wasn't supposed to be on this show, right? Well, before I was, Walter sort of came on to me. I didn't invite it, but I've been watching this show for years and I admit I was a little star-struck by him at first, and certainly flattered by his attention. But believe me, the minute I met Patrick, Walter completely left my mind, and I'm totally here for Patrick now. Unfortunately, what you saw last night was Walter hoping I was still interested in him. I told him in no uncertain terms I wasn't."

Grace looked at her quietly a moment, trying to assess her honesty. What Teresa had said was true, but somehow the senator's daughter made her feel like she was testifying before Congress. Teresa pushed her sunglasses up on her head and met Grace's eyes.

"I swear that's what happened, Grace. I know how terrible some women—and men—can be on this show, leading someone on, here for all the wrong reasons. I'm not one of them. If anything, I didn't expect any of this at all. It had just been a TV show until I was actually on it. But cameras or not, this is reality— _our_ reality. And he must like you too, to have invited you on a one-on-one date. You must care about his feelings to feel so protective of him." But it brought an uncomfortable tightness to her heart just imagining Patrick going out with this beautiful young woman. "Trust me," she said, "he's a wonderful man, and I would never purposely do anything to hurt him. He deserves to be happy with whomever he chooses."

Grace must have been able to see Teresa's sincerity, for her shoulders relaxed, and she lay back again in the lounge chair. Teresa silently let out the breath she'd been holding, putting her glasses back down over troubled green eyes. It would have been an easier conversation to explain herself as a bodyguard, she thought wryly.

"What do you suppose Patrick and the other girls are doing right now?" Grace asked, picking up her cold, sweating glass.

"I don't know," replied Teresa casually. "But I have a feeling we'll be hearing lots of crazy stories lately." Her mind flipped back to the bet Erica and Lorelei made, and she shivered, then, touching the cross at her neck, said a quick prayer of protection for Patrick.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

Patrick entered the stage to a single spotlight and the roar of the Vegas crowd, gifting them with his renowned, blinding smile. His electric blue suit and silver tie enhanced his showman's air, and without a word, he moved into his first trick, wordlessly presenting a deck of cards as if from thin air with an impressive flourish, signaling one of his dates from the audience to come up and help. She drew out a card, placed it back into the deck, while Patrick's elegant fingers manipulated the cards. Had he chosen another path in life, those hands might have been just as talented on a grand piano or holding a surgeon's scalpel.

It was a simple trick of his finding the exact card she'd returned to the fanned-out deck as he looked away, but what made the punchline special was when the card she'd chosen floated out of the deck and back into her hand. He kissed his helper on the cheek and she flushed happily before exiting stage left, to thunderous applause.

There were other small tricks as Patrick utilized the planted bachelorettes as volunteers, working his way up to his bigger illusions as Kristina, clad now in a low cut, sapphire leotard, brought him props. He flirted shamelessly with her, much to the delight of the audience. Then, it came time for his signature illusion, and the spotlight briefly went dark before brightening again as Patrick was suddenly, magically behind the wheel of a robin's egg blue Citroen. He expertly drove it to center stage, much to the delight of the crowd. After giving the horn a playful honk, he turned off the engine and emerged from the car with a bow.

"Now, my friends, you will witness the amazing spectacle of the incredible disappearing car. Oh, I know, some of you might want this ugly old fossil to disappear, maybe replace it with a Porsche. Am I right, all you car enthusiasts out there?" There was a smattering of masculine laughter; it was an eyesore to some who didn't appreciate a classic.

Kristina entered the stage now with a large length of opaque black cloth, and she helped him cover the Citroen with it before leaving the stage again. The cloth conformed to the car, making it obvious to the audience it was still there beneath it. What they didn't know was, it was slowly and soundlessly sinking through a trap door beneath it, where two stage hands would put it in neutral and push it off the platform. Above them, through the magic of illusion, the black cloth still maintained its car-shaped outline. While Patrick walked all around the perimeter, seeming to pat the car lovingly beneath the cloth, joking with the audience to distract and buy time, below the stage, he knew Erica and Kristina were rising up in the car's place, and it would be a very dramatic reveal when two women stood onstage instead of the Citroen.

Halfway through the trick, however, came a completely unplanned scream of real terror. Forgetting that a magician must never reveal his secrets, Patrick threw off the black cloth and looked down to see the trapdoor platform still a few feet from the top, Erica looking over the side into the darkness below. Kristina was nowhere to be seen.

"What happened?" he demanded, and Erica looked up with an innocent expression that didn't quite reach her dark eyes.

"She fell," the woman said simply.

Patrick drew a hand across his neck to stop the show, and instantly the curtain was drawn across the stage, the rising platform stopped, the lights going up over the audience.

"We apologize," came the voice of the announcer from hidden speakers, "we're experiencing technical difficulties. Please stay seated and we will resume the show as soon as possible."

"What the hell happened?" Patrick hissed. Automatically, he reached down to help Erica up, and the woman scrambled up, visibly shaking like a leaf. She fell against him in dramatic relief, clinging to him as she would a tree in a windstorm.

"I-I don't know. It was very dark, and I think she—she slipped off the platform." Patrick looked down at the dark head nestled into his shoulder and didn't believe a damn word she was saying. The shivering and shaking voice were a nice touch, however. He shoved her gently but firmly aside.

By now, Walter Mashburn, Bret Stiles, and Brenda Shettrick had all joined them onstage from the sidelines, while far below, stage hands had flipped on the trap room lights.

"Is she all right?" Brenda called. The camera crew followed her; this would make _really_ good TV, she and Brett were both thinking.

"She's out like a light, but breathing okay," called a hand. "Her leg looks like it might be broken. Better call 911."

Brenda nodded to her personal assistant, who punched the buttons on her phone.

"I'm coming down," said Patrick, and before anyone could stop him, jumped down the few feet to the trap door platform, pressing the button to lower it again far enough that he could safely slide off and drop to the floor beneath.

He went to Kristina's side, patting her face gently and calling her name. After a moment, her dazed blue eyes opened, and immediately she cringed in pain.

"Where am I?"

Patrick smiled tenderly down into her face, brushing back a stray strawberry blonde curl. "You stole the show is what happened. Erica said you slipped off the platform."

She tried to sit up, but he pushed her gently back down. "Don't try to move. You had a pretty good fall."

"I don't remember slipping," she said groggily. "Oh…my leg hurts like hell!"

The casino's medics, who had been in the wings off the stage, had made their way down the stairs and into the trap room with a gurney. Patrick backed out of their way, watching with concern as they stabilized her neck and spine before seeing to her leg with a rough splint. Carefully, they lifted her onto the gurney, and the stage hands, along with Mr. Right himself, helped carry her up the stairs, and out of a back door to the ambulance that had just arrived. A man with a hand-held camera followed them as Patrick got into the back of the rescue vehicle. At Patrick's nod, the paramedics closed the doors in the cameraman's face.

"Well, that's one way to get rid of the competition," Lorelei whispered to Erica as the two women changed later in the dressing room. The magic show had of course been cancelled, and the contestants were sent to remove their costumes.

Erica smirked. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Lorelei merely rolled her eyes.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Is she going to be okay?" asked Teresa late the next morning, when the group date women finally managed to drag themselves out of bed. Erica almost seemed to delight in sharing her adventures onstage and off, pleased with the focus on her as the unwitting bystander to the tragedy. The other girls were gathered on the couches in the living room, waiting for Mashburn to arrive to report on Kristina's condition and how the show would proceed.

Erica's face was a model of friendly concern. "She had a good fall, and I think there might be something wrong with her leg. I hope she is still able to continue on the show, poor thing." But Teresa could detect no genuine sympathy, let alone a true desire for Kristina's return.

They could hear the director in the foyer calling for quiet, so they new Mashburn was about to make his entrance. To their surprise, Patrick was with him. When she saw the dark circles beneath his eyes, the unusually haggard look on his handsome face that a touch of stage powder could not disguise, all Teresa wanted to do was hold him. His eyes scanned the room until they fell on her, and she felt his gaze caress her as warmly as an actual touch. His dull eyes brightened a bit, and Teresa knew her face had turned pink.

"Ladies," Mashburn began somberly, once the cameras were in place, "I have some sad news to share. I'm afraid Kristina won't be able to continue on the show. She has a pretty serious concussion, and her leg is broken from thigh to calf." His announcement was punctuated by a few gasps from the authentically concerned women. "Patrick stayed at the hospital with her most of the night until her family could arrive from San Francisco, but she will likely have to remain in Vegas for a few more days. Of course, our thoughts and best wishes are with her."

He paused so the cameras could catch the reactions of the others, while Patrick and Teresa exchanged bleak looks. Teresa's guard was up immediately. Something was troubling him, she could tell, and it was more than concern for Kristina's welfare. Beside her, Erica was staring at Mr. Right with an expression designed to compel his attention, but he purposely avoided her eyes. Teresa wished more than ever that she was free to go to him and get answers.

"I spoke to Kristina this morning before we left," Patrick added. "And she wishes you all well, but was insistent that the show go on without her. She was quite the trooper. I feel responsible for her accident, considering it happened during my show, but she was gracious enough to forgive me."

There were murmurs of approval from the women. What he failed to mention, however, was that he would be paying all of her medical expenses, despite the fact that he believed in his heart that Erica was actually the responsible party. If only he had proof. Kristina still couldn't remember exactly how she'd ended up on the floor beneath the trap door. But there was no doubt he wouldn't be giving Erica a key tomorrow night.

"Naturally, we are all disappointed that Kristina's journey with Patrick must end here," Mashburn was saying, "but we will honor her wishes and continue with Patrick's one-one-one date tonight. Grace? Are you ready to see Napa Valley by hot air balloon?" And just like that, Kristina Frye was forgotten, the show definitely going on.

Grace rose a little awkwardly, given the rapid change of mood in the room, but she managed to smile at Patrick, and moved to stand beside him. Patrick's brief glance at Teresa was somewhat sheepish, but she inclined her head in understanding, for he'd looked at her almost like he was asking permission before he took Grace's hand in his. She tried to tamp down her jealousy, but his quick observational skills had picked that up too, and his grin turned smug. _The bastard_ , she thought, but her heart still skipped a beat at that smile of his. Then, they were gone, and Teresa was left to listen to the fallout of Mashburn's announcements.

Teresa had managed to speak to Bret Stiles early that morning when he'd come back from Vegas, and she expressed her concern with Grace's security on her date. When he'd told her where they were going, she'd insisted that she tag along and stay an unobtrusive distance away. There were too many dangerous variables on such an excursion.

"But how do we explain your absence to the women in the house," Stiles asked.

"Food poisoning?" she suggested.

Stiles frowned. "How would that look? Two medical emergencies in as many days? That's defying belief a bit, even for _this_ show."

"A family emergency?"

Stiles pondered the conundrum a few moments. "I'll go you one better. Why don't we just let you mysteriously disappear? It might be some time before they realize you're gone, and then we'll have a grand old time filming their speculation. When you return late tonight, you could behave as if you'd never been gone."

"You seriously think that would fly with my roommates?"

He grinned impishly. "Who the devil cares? It would add more drama and intrigue, plus make you seem like an even greater contender."

She shook her head slightly, her expression serious. "I _am_ a contender, Mr. Stiles."

His face relaxed into an understanding smile. "All the better for all of us then, Teresa. As soon as they embark on their date later, manage to slip away, and we'll sneak you out the back door to follow close behind—though not too close, mind. And I'll arrange for a disguise for you. You're not to interfere with their date."

"That's the plan."

But as she walked away, she missed the producer's mischievous grin.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

The balloon right had been exhilarating, and Patrick knew such a romantic, thrilling ride should have merited a kiss, but when he looked into Grace's pretty face, he felt only a brotherly tenderness. He did kiss her-sweetly on the cheek, told her she was beautiful, the day perfect, but he offered her no more encouragement than a soft smile.

On the ground, they ate a snack of wine, cheese, and fruit beneath a canopy in the middle of a vineyard, their California cabernet lush and delicious. She spoke vaguely of her family, but passionately about law school, and the more they talked, the younger she seemed—not, for him at least, the kind of woman he was looking for. Not…Teresa.

There came a comfortable lull in the conversation, and he glanced beyond their little oasis to the crew surrounding them, filming them, waiting for a spark of romance to light up the TV screen. And then he saw a flash of platinum blonde beneath a baseball cap. At the very edge of the vineyard, leaning casually against a eucalyptus tree was a woman in a black leather jacket and jeans. He sensed she was watching them intently, though he couldn't see her eyes from this distance. Abruptly, her gaze rose to scan the area, as if searching for trouble. Something in the way she stood, her hand resting lightly on the bulge at her hip, seemed extremely familiar. It was there, in the tilt of her head, her diminutive posture— _something_ ….His eyes widened in recognition.

"What is it, Patrick?" Grace asked.

He forced his attention back to his date. "Oh, nothing. Thought I saw a bobcat or maybe a coyote."

She stiffened, looking around worriedly. "Really?"

He grinned at her happily, and his heart pounded with the thrill of Teresa's nearness. "No. A trick of the eyes." He raised his glass and proposed a toast to her, to their date, and to finding the perfect match.

She drank heartily, pleased that he was beginning to perhaps see her as the perfect match for him.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

There would be dancing to a live band that evening, inside the beautiful inn located on the vineyard, and while he waited for Grace to finish dressing for dinner, he went in search of a certain blonde interloper. He found her loitering down the hall from Grace's room on the second floor, her head bent low, facing a guestroom door as if she were about to insert a key, trying to look as small and invisible as possible as he walked past. Remembering the gun she carried, his hand went there first, and he disarmed her with the light, deft touch of a pickpocket, dropping it into his own pocket. She instantly swung around and brought her knee up, and he laughed as he quickly maneuvered his hips out of her way.

"Hey! Watch it! Teresa, it's me!"

Before she could try again, he had her pinned against the door, his firm body pushing solidly against her softness. They were both breathing heavily, and when she looked up at him with angry green eyes, he dipped his head under her cap and kissed her. She struggled, but only for a moment, before she melted against him and opened her mouth beneath his.

"What are you doing here?" he asked her breathlessly, rubbing a lock of the fake hair between his fingers in amusement.

"Crashing your date?"

"With a Glock?"

He held up her weapon by the grip, and she swiped it back from him, looking around before holstering it beneath her leather jacket.

She sighed, closing her eyes and banging the back of her head lightly against the door in frustration. "You weren't supposed to see me. Dammit."

"Is this your room," he asked. At her nod, he stepped away from her and said: "Let's go inside."

She picked up the key card she'd dropped and stood with her back to him, feeling his heat right behind her, his breath stirring her wig. Her fingers trembled and it took two swipes to open the door.

Inside the flowery room decorated in Victorian chic, she turned to him, knowing now the jig was up.

"Explain," he demanded, crossing his arms over his chest so he wouldn't reach for her again. He'd halfway figured it out already, however. She was guarding one of them—likely Grace, given the young woman's secrecy about her family. So that meant Teresa was truly some kind of private security, just as she had told him before. He tried not to feel hurt by her lie of omission, tried not to jump to the conclusion that she had been using him to stay close to Grace.

"Grace's father is a senator. He hired me to watch her. She's had death threats."

He nodded, hating for once that he'd been right.

"Does Grace know?"

"She knows her father hired extra security, but she doesn't know it's me. Actually, she told her father she didn't want to know who was guarding her. She wanted me to be as discreet as possible. So much for that." She tore off her hat and wig, tossing them on the four-poster bed. Her real hair was slicked back into a low bun, and she wore no makeup, making her look as younger than Grace.

"And the show? Just a means to do your job?"

"At first," she admitted. "But…not now." She met his eyes, and he wanted so much to believe her. But she'd deceived him, and if there was anything he hated most, it was someone getting the better of him.

He advanced toward her slowly, his heart racing, hoping against hope that he hadn't been completely wrong about her, that their kisses had meant as much to her.

"And now?" he prompted quietly, standing just a breath away, afraid to touch what perhaps wasn't really his. Her eyes were bright with what looked suspiciously like unshed tears, and he could hear her breathing change, becoming ragged at his closeness. She moved the last few inches toward him and rose slightly on her toes to reach his waiting lips, the only answer she could think of that would satisfy them both.

The soft tapping on her door seemed as loud as a gunshot, and they lifted their heads with startle, their breathing harsh in the quiet room.

"Teresa!" came the urgent whisper of Walter Mashburn from the other side of the door. "It's me! We have unfinished business, sweetheart. Let me in!"

And then, another voice, slightly farther away, though unmistakably that of Grace Van Pelt: "Mr. Mashburn. Did I hear you say Teresa was in there?"

 **A/N: Just a wee little cliffie. Thanks for hanging in there, pun intended, and, as always, thanks so much for reading!**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: I really love this fandom, how the people here seem so much nicer and more supportive than on others I've experienced. Anyway, thanks for the great reviews of chapter 5, and for all the well-wishes for my father. He's doing much better now, thank you. So hey, how about this? Two chapters in as many weeks! I hope you like this one. (And please note, it goes to a mild** ** _M_** **rating toward the end.)**

 **Chapter 6**

 _Why was Mashburn calling her sweetheart?_ Jane glanced down at Teresa's anxious expression.

"Should we answer the door?" she whispered.

"How does he know you're in here?" he shot back quietly, and she was surprised to see his face stiff with suspicion.

"It was his idea that I come on the show," she said. "I actually rode with him on the other plane to get here this morning…"

By now, they could hear Mashburn and Grace talking in the hall.

"…you must have heard me say _Lisa,_ our production assistant," Mashburn was saying. "There's been a—a misunderstanding between us, and I wanted to work things out before they interfered with the show. She must not be in her room."

Teresa admired his quick thinking, knew he was trying to protect her cover. Beside her, Patrick snorted softly. "Lisa's about sixty years old. I met her on set a few days ago," he said.

"Oh," Grace replied to Mashburn on the other side of the door. She didn't sound convinced. "Well…Is uh, Patrick ready? I don't want to keep everyone waiting to film our date."

"You do look lovely, my dear. I haven't seen Patrick yet. Why don't we go down to the restaurant and see if he's there. I'm sure Brenda was about to send for you…"

Their voices faded away, and Patrick stepped toward the door to look through the peephole. The hallway was empty. He reached for the doorknob.

"I'd better get down there," he said, and Teresa frowned at his coolness.

"Patrick—" she began, stepping toward him. She could feel him slipping away from her, and not just physically.

He gave her a small smile that didn't reach his eyes, lightly touched her cheek with the back of his hand. "I'll see you later."

And then he was gone.

She stared at the closed door a moment. _What the hell just happened?_

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Teresa reluctantly put on her disguise again and went downstairs. She decided to check out the perimeter of the inn, nodding at the show's security detail as she made her rounds. She found a place behind a huge potted palm inside the restaurant, and lingered in the shadows as she watched Patrick and Grace pretend to eat their gourmet dinner, complete with plenty more of the vineyard's own wine, which they did, in fact, imbibe. The pair seemed to be getting along famously, laughing and talking, and even from her distant vantage point, she could see the sparkle in Patrick's eyes as he looked at her across the table, covered her hand with his.

He never glanced in her direction, but she knew he sensed her watching him. Was he punishing her for Walter's pursuit of her? Did he think she was somehow involved with him, even after those hot kisses they'd shared only an hour before?

Suddenly, she felt Mashburn's warm hand encircle her upper arm.

"Teresa. We need to talk."

"I'm working," she said stiffly, and she backed further into the shadows of the tree. He followed, sidling closer to her.

"You were in your room earlier, weren't you? With _him_."

She didn't bother denying it. "I told you, what I do with Patrick is between him and me. You're a great guy, Walter, but I'm interested in _him_ , and this is not a game to me. To either of us."

"What if I told him how you really came to be on the show? What you're really doing here?"

She looked up at him from under her baseball cap, her eyes angry green slits. "Stop trying to manipulate me, Walter. I like you, but blackmailing me will not endear you to me, that's for sure. Besides, he already knows."

Mashburn's eyebrows rose. "You're kidding. And he hasn't sent you packing? Patrick wants a woman he can trust, and you've been lying to him."

She hesitated, and Mashburn grinned triumphantly. "He's pissed off, isn't he?"

"Actually, he wasn't, not until he heard you call me sweetheart through my door earlier."

Mashburn chuckled. "I swear, I had no idea he was in there."

Dinner was wrapping up, and the camera crew began packing up to move into the ballroom for the promised dancing to come. Apparently, they'd flown in some pop star to serenade them with his current hit love song. Patrick and Grace rose from their uneaten meals and were at once attacked by powder brushes and makeup sponges. Patrick quickly shrugged them off and rose from his chair.

"I need some air," he said, and Teresa read his lips through palm fronds.

Grace watched him leave, then, before Teresa could slip out a side door and catch up with him, she quickly followed him toward the door.

"Dammit," she muttered, and Mashburn didn't hide his grin.

"The trouble with a dating show like this, is you're not the only one dating him. Maybe Grace is really the one for him. Are you going to try to come between them on their date? If you truly care for him, you'll let _him_ decide."

She gave him a dirty look before coming out of the shadow of the tree. "I've still got a job to do," she told him, and moved to the sliding glass door nearby, hoping she could find another place to hide while she watched her charge. Thankfully, Mashburn didn't follow her, but neither was he fooled by her words; she also wanted to know what might happen between Patrick and Grace.

She found another place to hide, behind the grape arbor where Patrick and his date were standing, looking out over the darkened vineyard. Above them, a sliver of moon shone brightly in the sky, and, combined with the small lights marking the pathway, Teresa had just enough light to make out the two figures.

"Is everything all right?" Grace asked him, with genuine concern.

"Of course. It just starts feeling a little stuffy in there, with all the crew surrounding us."

"Yes. It's a little overwhelming sometimes."

Neither of them spoke for a moment, and then Teresa heard Grace let out a soft breath, as if steeling herself for what she was about to say. Teresa, ironically, held hers.

"Patrick…there's something I need to tell you, and I want you to know, I take no pleasure in it. I don't like talking behind people's backs, but I did give her a chance to explain herself…"

"What are you talking about?" But Teresa suspected he knew what Grace was about to say, and she felt her throat grow tight with unshed tears.

"It's about Teresa. The other day, after she got home from your date, I saw her talking alone with Walter Mashburn. I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but they were at the foot of the stairs and I was on my way to my room-"

"What happened?" he interrupted. Teresa didn't recognize his voice. It was devoid of all emotion, and it made her stomach drop.

"They were standing very close, and his hands were on her shoulders. He told her he—he had seen her first. When I spoke to Walter, he said they were old friends. I asked Teresa about it too. She admitted to having a crush on him before the show. Then, tonight…well, I saw Walter outside a door upstairs, and he was asking for Teresa. I think she's here tonight, staying in this inn, that she came here to be with him. Walter denies it, but I heard him say her name as clear as day."

Her confession was met with silence, and the girl somehow felt that was encouragement to continue. "Look, I know this makes me sound like a self-serving busybody, but I hope you understand where I'm coming from. If Teresa isn't here for the right reasons, I think you deserve to know. And I think—I think you deserve better."

Teresa saw him turn toward Grace in the pale moonlight, saw his shadowy hand move up to her cheek, brushing it in the same way he'd done to her in her room earlier. His white teeth flashed in the darkness.

"Thank you, Grace. I appreciate your looking out for me." Then, to her horror, he bent and lightly brushed her lips with his. Grace, however, had something else in mind, and her hand slid into his thick hair, pulling him into a deeper kiss. Teresa could stand it no more. She took an involuntary step backward, rustling the bushes surrounding her, stumbling over a large rock, feeling it scrape painfully against her leg before she broke away and fled like a madwoman from the heartbreaking scene, her job be damned. She ran blindly into the night, found herself in the vineyard between the rows of grape vines, the sweet smell of warm fruit and rich earth surrounding her. She tripped in the dark and fell to her knees, but she didn't get up. She stayed there, a brutal weakness suffusing her entire body, her breath panting out in wracking sobs.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Patrick raised his head, pulling away from Grace's firm hold. "What was that?" he asked, oblivious to Grace's shaking frame. He'd heard someone in the bushes behind the arbor, and he had the sneaking suspicion it had been Teresa. He'd felt her eyes on him earlier, from some hidden spot inside the restaurant, and it had been all he could do not to go to her and shake her in frustration. Instead, he'd put on a show for her with Grace, hoping she'd feel as hurt seeing him with Grace as he had at the thought of her with Mashburn.

He reached up and disentangled Grace's hands from his hair and shoulders. For a brief moment he'd let her kiss him passionately, almost praying that he would feel something, that this beautiful young woman would erase the memory of Teresa's sensual mouth.

But just like he'd felt up in the balloon earlier, kissing Grace was like kissing his sister, and it was all he could do not to shudder in guilty dismay. He'd been an idiot earlier with Teresa, had let his fear get in the way of the truth in her eyes. He read people's emotions for a living, for God's sake. Why couldn't he trust what was so obvious in front of him? Teresa had been surprised that Mashburn had shown up at her room, and not in a good way. But not in a guilty way either. He could see how Grace might have misinterpreted things, just as he had allowed himself to do. But Grace didn't know what had transpired between him and Teresa, the genuine, unforced passion, the meeting of souls and minds that was there whenever they touched, whenever they spoke, whenever they kissed.

"Grace," he began, "I'm—"

"Mr. Jane? Grace? We're all set up in the ballroom for you." It was the voice of the real Lisa, the production assistant, calling into the darkness from somewhere nearby.

"We're here," said Patrick, and he took Grace's hand to lead her back down the path and into the light of the inn.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Teresa had no idea how long she'd stayed outside amidst the grapes, but it was long after the music had died down. The love song had reached her there in the moonlight, and she'd cried for the first time in years as she imagined Patrick and Grace swaying together to the romantic music. She assumed he was right this minute giving her another Key to his heart. The worst part was that she couldn't leave, not while Grace was still on the show, and from the look of that kiss earlier, Patrick fully intended to keep her on. She had a job to do, one for which her team back in Sacramento was depending on her. It occurred to her then that she could call Cho to come down here and take over, and she was at once tempted to find a phone and call him, but the senator's insistence came back to her, and she hung her head at the emotional bind she was in.

Wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands, she got to her feet, gasping at the pain in her leg where she'd fallen against the rock. She limped back to the inn, adjusting the hat and wig on her head and keeping her face low. The production was winding down for the night, and she was glad that only a few crewmembers were around, packing things up for the journey back to LA the next morning. The happy couple was nowhere in sight.

On the second floor, she walked casually by Grace's room, and she could hear the blow-dryer running from somewhere inside. She was relieved by the sound; if Grace and Patrick were in the throes of passion, she wouldn't be in the middle of drying her hair. She inclined her head to the guard who stood by in the hall as ordered, and made a beeline back to her own room.

In the dim light by the bed, she saw Patrick sitting in a chair, waiting for her. She paused, staring dumbly at him, then, with trembling hands, she removed her hat, wig, and gun for the second time that day, tossing them, along with her jacket, onto the nearby bureau. She felt the weight of his eyes upon her, and she realized she must look a fright. Her jeans were stained on the knees from vineyard soil, and blood had probably seeped through the denim from her injured calf. Her hands were dirty too, from gripping the earth between desperate fingers, and she knew her face must be streaked with tears and dust.

"How did you get in here?" she asked at last.

"The maids around here are easily coerced," he said with a smirk. She'd bet they were, given one smile from him.

"I'm surprised you aren't in Grace's room." Try as she might, she couldn't keep the bitterness from her voice.

"You were watching us outside earlier." It wasn't a question.

"Yes. She looked to be in good hands, so I—I left you to your privacy."

"Teresa—"

She put one hand up to forestall any explanation. "I get it, and you know, everything Grace told you was true, so I don't blame you for feeling betrayed. I'm feeling that way myself right now, especially after all I've seen with my own eyes tonight. Now, if you'll excuse me, I really would like a shower and a good night's sleep. We have an early morning tomorrow."

But he rose and stood between her and the bathroom. "I'm not leaving till you hear me out, till you hear my apology."

"Why are you apologizing? You're here to find the perfect woman for you, and I knew coming in that it meant you would date and kiss the others on the show. Grace is a lovely girl, and I don't begrudge her for trying to protect you, and I don't begrudge you taking what she offered."

"But I shouldn't have kissed her," he said, his hands going to her forearms. "Not when I'm falling in love with you."

Her eyes widened. "We've only known each other a few days. It's too soon—"

"Who made up that arbitrary rule? I know what I'm feeling, and to hell with the timing of it all. What I felt when I mistakenly doubted you about Mashburn—that was pure, green-eyed monster jealousy, idiotic insecurity. I'm not proud of it, and I'm sorry I fell into that trap. But this is so crazy, all of it."

"It _is_ crazy. We _can't_ be in love. It's the show, the setting, the fantasy circumstances—none of it is real. I'm the idiot, for having the little girl romantic notion that love at first sight is even possible, that this show could be in any way, shape or form _reality_."

His hands slid up her arms and she tried not to shiver at the warmth of his touch, at the pure electricity in his hands.

"But no matter how misguided it seems, you're feeling it too, aren't you?" he whispered. "Especially right now, when I touch you."

"This is lust, though, that's all. Physical chemistry."

"Oh, it's that too all right," he said with a smile, right before he captured her mouth with his.

Every kiss from him was both different and the same. This one felt raw and rich and passionate, almost desperate in its intensity. But no matter how he kissed her, it still felt like he possessed her entire world, had taken not just her mouth, but her entire body; but especially, her heart. His hands were everywhere at once: caressing her face, delving into her hair to release it from its low bun while the hairpins flew, cupping her shoulders, then her breasts. His thumbs passed over her hardened nipples and she gasped into his mouth. He deepened the kiss in response, and she held onto his perfect ass, pulling his hardness to her softness.

They became mindless, dizzy with desire, and her gray t-shirt disappeared like his finest magic, along with the practical white bra that turned him on more than any of the most expensive lingerie of his past experience. Her own hands were not idle, divesting him of the top two pieces of his grey Italian suit, her hands busy at the buttons of his crisp white shirt. He backed her to the bed and she fell upon it, while he fell upon the top snap of her jeans. When he'd pulled them to her knees, she suddenly stiffened in pain.

"My leg," she said tremulously. "I scraped it up pretty good in the garden."

He paused, glancing down to see the dark stain on her left calf. "Here?" He touched her gently and she nodded, biting her lip.

He eased her jeans down slowly, but she cried out when they found the blood from her wound had stuck to the fabric. He went to the bathroom, and she could hear the water running as he wet a washcloth before returning with it. He reached down through her pants leg and she felt the wet heat of the cloth, soothing the dried blood away before he eased the garment the rest of the way off. He reached over and clicked the light up to its brightest setting and surveyed the damage. As she'd feared, the rock had given her a wicked looking gash. She marveled at the sight of him, his golden head bent over her legs, his tanned arms and torso begging for her touch.

"This should be cleaned and bandaged, but I don't think it needs stitches." He pressed the cloth to her wound again, then picked up the bedside phone and punched in the operator to ask for a first-aid kit.

"I'm taking a shower and cleaning this up," she said when he'd hung up. He caught her hand, his eyes gleaming with unfulfilled passion as he took in her firm breasts and toned stomach. She flushed self-consciously. She still wore her white cotton panties, but they way he was looking at her, she may as well have been completely naked.

"Bum leg or not, I'm not finished with you tonight."

She smiled at him seductively. "Too bad someone needs to answer the door for that delivery; we could play doctor in the shower." He pulled her to his bare chest, the light layer of blonde fur tickling her breasts. He ravaged her mouth until she couldn't think, let alone breathe.

"Hurry up in there, or I might not wait for help to arrive, then where would you be?"

"On the road to infection?"

He released her with a squeeze of her small bottom and a quick lick of her aching nipple. She wondered if her legs would be strong enough to hold her up in the shower.

He was all business again when she returned to the bedroom in inn's complimentary robe. He'd put his shirt back on, though only halfway buttoned to somewhat modestly answer the door. He had her sit on the bed, towels and first-aid supplies arranged in an amusingly ordered fashion on the nightstand. She tried not to blush at the pair of wrapped condoms laying not so innocently alongside the bandages.

He sat in a chair before her, lifted her left leg into his lap. She watched him apply hydrogen peroxide from a small bottle with a cotton ball, then blow on it to ease the sting when she flinched. His hot breath gave her chills beneath the borrowed robe, and his hands were firm and sure and very warm as they performed his role as medic. Anti-bacterial salve came next, then a gauze pad, which he attached firmly to her wound with first-aid tape. He lightly kissed the top of the bandaged wound for good measure.

 _This man is definitely a keeper_ , she thought.

He looked up and caught her expression, his face softening as his eyes touched on her damp hair and rosy, clean cheeks. He gave her a couple of ibuprofen for the pain, and he held out a glass of water. "Better?" he asked.

"Much." She remembered her previous thoughts, about how he might have been an excellent surgeon with those skilled hands of his. And then those same hands slid up her thighs as he bent to kiss her.

"Should I go?" he asked against her lips, despite his earlier promise to have her regardless of her injury.

"No," she whispered, and she moved his hands to the belt of her robe.

She fell back against the bed as he joined her there, spreading the robe apart so he could take the tip of her breast in his mouth, his other hand rolling the other tight bud between his fingers. She moaned until he switched breasts, then moaned again in mounting pleasure.

He kissed her mouth before kissing his way down to her stomach, then to the apex of her trembling thighs. His tongue did magical things to her and she held him fast against her, both hands in his hair. Vaguely, Teresa acknowledged that she had never felt so aroused in her life. It was almost embarrassing how quickly she came undone beneath his mouth, with three of his long fingers embedded deep within her body.

She looked up dazedly at his cocky grin, and she noticed with surprise that he was still dressed. She'd give him something to grin about.

"Make those clothes disappear, Mr. Magician," she said, propping herself up on her elbows to watch the show.

"Illusionist," he corrected, but he did as he was told, revealing a lightly muscled swimmer's body. He had no tan lines, and somehow, that was even sexier to her than his trim abs. He was ready for her and grabbed the condom, tearing it open with an efficiency she was really starting to admire. He pulled her hips toward him on the bed, gently parting her bent knees before sliding into her with a groan of pleasure. She watched his long lashes fall over his eyes as he stilled, savoring the ecstasy of their joined bodies. But the intensity of the moment was so acute, Teresa could hardly bear it, and she lifted her hips in invitation. With a gasp, he began to move, each stroke long and slow and almost painfully pleasurable. Sweat gathered on his forehead and chest, and she felt like her heart would burst through her breast.

"Please," she begged, urging him to go faster. Her heels came up to his buttocks, pushing him in more deeply. With that, he had reached the end of his control, and he picked up the pace, pounding into her body until they both shouted out their release. She gathered him to her, hugged him close as their bodies cooled and their breathing slowed.

"I love you," she whispered into his damp temple.

He raised his head to look at her, blue-green eyes bright with banked passion. "I love you too, Teresa. You're the only woman I will ever want."

In that moment, neither of them was thinking of the bevy of women awaiting him back in LA.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

"I wish we could use all that," mourned Bret Stiles, as he looked at the live feed of Mr. Right and Teresa, entwined on her bed. He and Brenda Shettrick were watching from his private suite in the inn. As soon as Teresa had said she wanted to come on this date, he'd made sure there were cameras installed in both their rooms. Some might say that was an invasion of their privacy, but they'd signed contracts allowing the show to film at any and all times. It was their fault if they hadn't read the fine print. Besides, they couldn't put most of it on primetime network television anyway, though they always had the audio.

Brenda frowned, still looking at the hidden camera footage with the critical eyes of a director. "Not all of that is salvageable. It looks pretty grainy, but it was helpful they kept the light on. We really need to invest in some higher quality cameras. The main problem we have now is that Jane obviously isn't planning on putting his heart into dating the rest of the women. They've already said _I love you,_ for Christ's sake. This isn't good, Bret."

"Well, he'll face a huge lawsuit if he backs out now," Stiles countered. "He's agreed to hang in there for the duration."

"True," said Brenda, switching off the live feed. "But imagine the publicity, even if we have to stop midway through. We could throw in another bachelor at the last minute to finish out the season. Everyone and their dog would tune in to see that."

Stiles shook his head. "The network won't go for it, I'm afraid. No, we will have to put some obstacles between the two lovebirds first, see if that extends their stay. That bet between Erica and Lorelei sounds promising, and Grace still has no idea Jane doesn't really want her, and he's too much of a gentleman to go out of his way to hurt her. Plenty of drama left here to create and explore; it's not over yet."

Brenda shrugged. "You're the boss."

He pulled her into his arms and kissed her softly on the lips, blue eyes flashing.

"But only on the soundstage, my pet. We both know who really pulls my strings…"

 **A/N: Ew? Lol. Sorry; I couldn't resist. After reading some behind-the-scenes stuff regarding "The Bachelor," I felt it would be interesting to put a dose of reality show into my fanfic. Some of it's pretty shocking. More soon. Thanks for reading.**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Thanks for waiting for this update, and for all your great reviews.**

 **Chapter 7**

Although they had agreed Patrick would leave her room long before everyone else in the inn awoke, Teresa still felt bereft to awaken and find the pillow beside her empty. It had been a long, passionate night, and she felt exhausted but happier than she'd ever remembered being. They had made love twice more in the night, whispering their love over and over again until she had no doubt that this was real, that they both meant it with equal fervor. She glanced at the bedside clock. At this moment, she knew he was speaking to Stiles about leaving the show, and she felt a renewed thrill of love for Patrick.

She turned over to his vacated pillow, burrowing her face into the soft cotton, breathing in the scent of his shampoo and cologne. She smiled and turned over on her back, reveling in the morning sunshine that managed to seep in through the closed white blinds. It was going to be a great day. She looked around, trying to commit the room to memory, so that she could relive this magical night with Patrick. It was then that she noticed that there were two smoke alarms. Odd, for such a small room. She sat up in bed, drawing the sheet around her nakedness before padding over to the first one, mounted on the wall near the bathroom. The red light was on, indicating it was in use. The other, on the ceiling in a corner of the room, had no lights, but it did have a small, black hole in the center of the white plastic cover. She turned on the overhead light, feeling her stomach clench in dawning suspicion.

Teresa grabbed a chair and, one hand still holding the sheet, dragged it beneath the second smoke detector. She stood on the chair so she could examine the device more closely, then she looked at the sight line of the hidden camera that was no doubt embedded in the small hole. She'd seen this kind of thing before in her work, and she kicked herself for not noticing it earlier. Whoever was watching would have had a clear view of the bed, and everything that had transpired in it with Patrick in the night. She flushed, feeling embarrassed and violated, but mostly angry with herself for not keeping on her toes.

"I see you," she said to the camera. "And this is totally unacceptable." She reached up and pulled down the mock smoke detector. Sure enough, a small switch on the back turned off the camera and the microphone embedded there alongside it. Audio _and_ video, she realized, adding to her fury. Of course, it had to have been placed there by the show, and she remembered having signed the contract that said they had permission to film her at any place or time. She'd been stupid enough to believe they had meant with a camera crew, that her privacy in her own room would be respected.

She resisted the urge to destroy the damn thing, gently setting it on the small dining table instead—face down.

"Well, the jig is up," she said to the empty room.

But Patrick had already planned to talk to Stiles anyway. Her eyes widened as she realized that if the producer had been watching and listening, he already knew their plans. She marched angrily into the bathroom, giving the room a thorough going over before closing the door and dropping her sheet. Even so, she couldn't shake the feeling of Big Brother watching her, and she turned on the water in the shower as hot as she could bear, hoping the steam would shield her from further intrusion.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I'm afraid, with the contract you signed, old boy, leaving the show prematurely is simply impossible."

Stiles hadn't seemed at all surprised at Patrick's announcement that he was leaving the show—and taking Teresa Lisbon with him. The man sat in his luxurious suite at a writing desk, sipping his Earl Grey and watching the unedited dailies on his laptop.

"So sue me," Patrick countered. "There's no sense continuing dating these other women when I already know who I want. Besides, it would be cruel and unfair to string them along and waste any more of their valuable time."

"Admirable of you," said Stiles sincerely. "But unfortunately, you will in fact be sued if you go now, and you wouldn't be the only one to pay for your decision." He tapped a few buttons on his computer and turned the screen around so Patrick could see it. Immediately, he was confronted with a slightly pixilated image of himself and Teresa in the dim light of her room, writhing passionately on her bed while she moaned sweetly and cried out his name.

"What the hell is this?" he said with tightly controlled rage. "This can't be legal."

Stiles smiled with more than a hint of condescension. "Your signature on the contract made it legal, my friend. You should always read binding legal documents very carefully, Patrick. And while obviously we can't show this on network television, one never knows in this day and age when something could leak onto the internet…"

Patrick reached over and slammed down the laptop screen. "How much do you want?"

Stiles chuckled. "You don't have enough money. No, all I want is for you to finish what you agreed to. Of course, you may pick Teresa in the end, but you still have several weeks of dating to go through before you reach that final dramatic decision. If this is in fact really true love, surely it can survive the rest of the process."

Patrick couldn't remember being this furious. He clenched his fists, itching to knock that oleaginous grin off the smug Englishman's face. Had it only been himself on that video, he'd have damned the consequences and walked out, but the thought of putting Teresa through that embarrassment, not to mention revealing her undercover job, made him stop himself from doing the selfish thing and leaving the show high and dry without their Mr. Right.

He took a silent, steadying breath. "Fine, you slimy, blackmailing bastard," he said softly, staring ominously into the producer's cold blue eyes. "But someday you'll look back on this moment and wish you had made a very different decision."

Stile shrugged, seemingly immune to any implied threat. "Whatever you're contemplating, Patrick, I hope you won't also rue this moment yourself, in future. Now, I suggest you return to your own room and pack up. You have a very important Key Ceremony this evening back in LA."

Again, Patrick had to hold himself back from punching Stiles's lights out. The man held all the cards, and Patrick needed desperately to get away to form some sort of plan of getting out of this. He'd call his lawyer too, have him go over that contract with a fine-tooth comb, see if there was some legal path. Otherwise, Patrick was not above resorting to sabotage. Without another word, he turned his back on Stiles and strode purposefully to the door, resisting the desire to slam it angrily behind him.

Brenda Shettrick emerged from the closed bathroom door, wrapping a fluffy robe around her freshly bathed body. She walked up behind her lover and bent to kiss his cheek, her arms coiling around his shoulders. She'd heard the entire discussion from the tub.

"Boy, he was not a happy camper," she commented lightly. Stiles set down his cup and pulled her around into his lap.

"Quite so. But he'll stay in line, if only to protect his lady love. Besides, any trouble he causes will only raise interest in the new season and put the ratings through the roof. It's actually a win-win, don't you think?"

Brenda smiled in adoration. "You're truly a brilliant, brilliant man, Bret."

"Stick with me, sweetheart," he said, adopting his best Bogart imitation, "we'll go places."

She laughed and kissed him passionately on the mouth.

Xxxxxxxxxx

Patrick didn't see Teresa on his plane, of course, and he found himself annoyed to think she was on another plane, having to put up with the unwanted advances of Walter Mashburn while he sat here and couldn't protect her. Instead, his lot was to sit beside Grace while the camera crew filmed on. He tried his best to be charming and kind, but all he wanted to do was look into the camera and let out a long string of obscenities.

"Is there something wrong, Patrick?" Grace asked, her pretty eyes troubled. "You don't seem quite yourself today."

"I'm sorry," he replied sincerely. This wasn't her fault, after all. "I'm just very tired. I uh, got little sleep last night." Which was certainly the truth. His smile became more genuine.

"This whole thing—it is a little wearing," she added.

"Very true. Still, I had a lovely time with you; please don't ever think otherwise."

Her smile was warm, and she touched his hand encouragingly. "It was an amazing day yesterday." She glanced over at the key he'd given her at dinner the day before, and the cameras zeroed in on it, where it lay beside her handbag on an empty seat. "I on the other hand, slept like a baby, knowing I was safe for tonight's Key Ceremony, at least."

"Yes," he said politely. "I suppose you are."

The rest of the trip passed in much the same way, and Patrick hoped the cameramen would become bored and stop filming. He even yawned, covering his mouth apologetically in order to excuse closing his eyes and feigning sleep. It was in that moment he knew what he could do to sabotage this show. If his lawyer couldn't get him out of this, well _he_ would. And he would do it through simple honesty. How could Stiles find legal fault with that, if he still went through the motions of the show and did whatever he was obligated to do?

A beatific smile formed on his lips, and for a few minutes, at least, he did actually sleep.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

"So, tell us all about it," said Lorelei to Grace, as they sat around the mansion dining table. They were eating lunch before they all had to get ready to see Mr. Right at the evening's cocktail party, and of course they all tried to ignore the ubiquitous cameras.

"It was lovely—the inn, the wine, the food. But mostly, Patrick was so sweet, and such a gentleman."

"Did he kiss you?" asked Erica, her eyes going dull with annoyance at Grace's answering blush.

"I'd prefer not to talk about what goes on between Patrick and me," she replied demurely. Erica glanced across the table at Lorelei, who couldn't stop herself from rolling her eyes, failing to cover it up by shoving a big mouthful of arugula into her mouth. "But I will say," Grace continued, oblivious to the animosity around her, "that he gave me a key, so I'm safe tonight, thank God."

"Well, that must be comforting," added another woman kindly.

It was then that Teresa made her appearance, stopping off in the kitchen to pour herself a cup of coffee.

"Where have you been?" asked Lorelei.

Teresa shrugged. "What do you mean? I've been around."

Erica's cat eyes narrowed. "No, you haven't."

"I really don't have any obligation to report to you about my comings and goings."

"You do when you're getting special treatment," piped in Lorelei. "Why do you get to leave the mansion and we don't? I'm going stir crazy in here with all these women—no offense, ladies. But you all know what I mean."

"If you think you're being treated unfairly, go talk to the producers. In the meantime, mind your own damn business."

Teresa hadn't meant to get so angry with the scheming bitch, but she was about at the end of her rope emotionally. On the plane ride back from Napa, she hadn't had the chance to talk to Stiles alone, and Mashburn had been a pest, sitting by her, trying to ply her with mimosas and spill what had gone on between her and Patrick. Finally, she'd put on her sunglasses, stared pointedly out the window, and put in her earbuds, cranking up her 90's pop music playlist. He got the hint, thank God, and moved to another row of seats. She stewed awhile in hers, mulling over how screwed up this whole situation had become.

If Stiles had recorded her night with Patrick, he could use it to further manipulate them. Patrick would try to protect her, and so the show would go on, with him dating the other women, and she-cats like Erica and Lorelei throwing themselves at him. Despite Patrick's assurances, she wondered how a mere mortal like him could resist their blatant sexuality.

"Well, well, aren't we touchy this morning?" noted Erica dryly.

Teresa ignored her and sipped the hot coffee gratefully. She glanced at her charge, who seemed happy and safe enough.

"Did you have a nice time with Patrick?" she asked, out of some weird desire to punish herself, she supposed.

"Yeah, Red got herself a key," said Lorelei. "They both must have had fun." There was no mistaking the innuendo in that statement.

Grace blushed and turned to Teresa. "It was great. He took me up in a hot air balloon. And Napa is beautiful."

Teresa nodded. "I've been there many times. One of my favorite places." _Especially now,_ she thought, at the delicious memory of Patrick's body covering hers.

Erica pushed back her chair noisily. "Well, since this conversation is devolving into a travelogue, I'm going to start getting ready for the Key ceremony. We have to be ready by six, ladies."

This mobilized all but Teresa and Grace, and lunch wound down quickly. It was just after three, and Teresa needed maybe thirty minutes to get ready, so she hung back, watching Grace silently eating her salad. She joined her at the table to finish her coffee.

"There's plenty more salad here," offered Grace, nodding toward a large bowl. "Sandwiches too." A plate of sandwich wraps and filled pita bread beckoned Teresa, and her stomach growled. She'd been too upset up to eat breakfast at the inn. She sighed. She had to keep her strength up to get through the rest of this day. She grabbed a wrap and took a bite, barely tasting it. She longed to see Patrick, but his plane had already left when she'd arrived with Mashburn at the airport.

"You must have received a key last night, since you're still here today." It still hurt to realize this, remembering how Patrick had kissed Grace in the garden. He'd explained all that, how he'd been jealous of Mashburn so had tried to forget her in Grace's arms. The wound on her calf gave a sudden twinge, as if to remind her of how painful it had been to watch.

"Yes. You have one too, as I remember. It's nice not to have all the pressure of wondering tonight, isn't it?"

"Yeah," replied Teresa, but she wished it was just as simple as that.

With plenty of time left to spare, Teresa sought out Bret Stiles. She'd had enough time now to cool off, and to contemplate how best to confront the producer for what he'd done. In the end, she'd decided not to. Sure, if he had been watching, her rant to the fake smoke detector clued him in she'd discovered his voyeurism, but she'd never said his name or implied she knew it was likely him that had put in the hidden camera. Instead, she snuck outside to where he and the director were setting up shop beneath an awning for the evening's filming.

"Mr. Stiles. I need to call and update the senator." She was all business, even meeting his eyes without a hint of malice.

He was playing it cool, for he merely nodded and gave her his personal cell phone. She walked behind a bush to make her call. She _would_ call the senator, but only after she made a call to her office in Sacramento. Rigsby answered the phone.

"Hey, Rigs. Is Cho around?"

"No, he's still working the Kennedy case. It kinda took a crazy turn. Turns out, the guy has two families in two different cities, and he's married to _two_ women at the same time! Once Cho gets all the evidence, we'll have a case that will put us in the news for months! I'm sure there'll be a police investigation, and Cho will have to testify at the trial—"

"That's great news," she interrupted him, and normally she'd be as excited as Rigsby was about this new development, but she had something of a more personal nature to focus on at the moment. "You finished with that security installation job?"

"Yeah, finished up yesterday. I was just going to answer some calls, then join Cho on his—"

"No, actually, I need you to drop everything and fly down to LA. I need you to do some digging on a pretty shady character who is possibly trying to blackmail uh, someone here on the show."

"Who's that, Boss?"

"Bret Stiles."

"The producer of _Mr. Right?_ Damn. Are you thinking he's in on the threats to the Senator's daughter?"

"No, this is unrelated. Just hop the first flight down here and get to work. I don't know when I will be able to talk to you again. I'm not allowed to have a phone."

She could almost see the tall man's heavy brows furrowing. "Why not?"

"Because I'm on the show now myself. It's a long story—just do what I ask, please, and I'll try to call you tomorrow. In the meantime, use all the contacts you have in the entertainment industry and get me all the dirt you can on this guy. He's pretty shady. I imagine there's a graveyard full of skeletons in his giant walk-in closets."

"Wait—you're _on_ the show? _On_ the show-like one of the bachelorettes _on the show?"_

"I'll explain everything later. This is really important Rigsby. I'm trusting you with my—the stakes are really high here."

"Ok. I'm on it, Boss."

She hung up soon after and smiled grimly to herself. Normally, she wasn't one to delve into someone's personal life unless that person was a criminal. She figured blackmail justified her actions, even though she hadn't been threatened yet. Just the idea of having that embarrassing video out there was enough to make her hedge her bets, however; get something on Stiles just in case she had to use it to keep him in line.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

At six o'clock, Patrick was ready for the cocktail party to begin. He knew it would take some time for the crew to set everything up, and there would be private, confessional interviews of each of the women that would be included with this episode, where they discussed their hopes for the evening, expressed their true feelings about him and the other women in the house. He'd have to sit through one or two as well, and in truth, he couldn't wait to set his subtle plan in motion.

He'd called his lawyer in Malibu, who already had a copy of his contract, and the man reassured him that he'd start right away sifting through the legalese to find a way off the show. In the meantime, Patrick would deploy _Operation Mr. Wrong,_ as he'd dubbed his sabotage plan in his mind. Bret Stiles would definitely pay for his sick manipulation. The trick would be for Stiles not to realize what was happening, not to blame him or Teresa for what Patrick was about to put into motion. It would be the illusion of his career.

"I'm already falling in love," he confessed later to the camera. "And I think she feels the same way."

"Who's the lucky lady?" asked the assistant off camera. Later, the questions would be edited out, and the viewer at home would just here his replies.

"I'm keeping her identity a secret for now," he said with his best mysterious grin, thinking warmly of Teresa. _But it's no secret to you, sweetheart. We'll be together soon, I swear it._

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

Already exhausted from the pleasurable activities with Teresa the night before, the cocktail party seemed long and arduous. He grew tired of the constant interruptions as each woman fought to get one-on-one time alone with him. He bore it stoically, only relaxing when it became Teresa's turn to sit with him in the garden near the swimming pool. She wore another of her borrowed dresses; red this time. It matched the rosy flame that lit her face at the sight of him.

Camera or not, he couldn't resist taking her into his arms and kissing her ardently.

"I missed you," he breathed against her hair. She kissed his cheek and he closed his eyes against the impossible softness of her lips.

"Me too," she whispered.

He hadn't had a chance to talk to her about his meeting with Stiles, and he could tell that, in front of the cameras, she was letting him take the lead in what to reveal about their growing relationship.

"It seems like a million years since our date in Tahoe," he said. There obviously could be no mention of their time together in Napa. He drew her hand up to his mouth, kissing her knuckles, darting his tongue out to taste her skin. She shivered, recalling his tongue as it had delved into other, more intimate places, her face filling with color as he knowingly met her eyes.

"It was a magical night." They both knew she was no longer talking about Lake Tahoe.

"Yes."

When Erica interrupted them, it was all Patrick could do not to be rude, but he rose to his feet in greeting, helping Teresa up. He looked meaningfully into her eyes and kissed her cheek before she left him. He felt her loss acutely, especially when a woman like Erica joined him on the bench Teresa had just left. She was the last contestant he wanted to see. He hadn't forgotten his suspicions involving her and Kristina's accident.

"Well, Patrick, you seem to be enjoying yourself with Teresa."

"Yes," he said, aware of the cameras watching his every reaction. "She's pretty special."

One dark eyebrow rose at that. "She doesn't seem like your type, frankly."

"Oh, she's definitely my type. Kind, generous… _honest._ "

Erica chuckled. He knew she was trying very hard not to say something catty. He could almost see her mind switch gears. "Then you must let me say something honest to prove that I could be your type too." She reached out to play with his tie, her other hand resting suggestively on his thigh. "I think we are very much alike, you and I. We've both seen the world, seen the way of things, met a lot of different kinds of people. We know by now what we want, what makes us feel alive."

She had scooted closer to him, her hand moving up from his tie, her fingers insinuating themselves beneath his collar. The red-nailed hand on his thigh had moved closer to his groin. His hand dropped to cover hers on his leg, stopping its progress. This didn't stop her, however, and she leaned in to press her lips against his. Patrick froze, letting her continue the attempt at seduction, his eyes remaining determinedly open. It took perhaps twenty painful seconds for her to realize he was not going to kiss her back.

She withdrew, obviously offended, surprised at his lack of enthusiasm.

"I'm sorry," he said with devastating politeness. "I don't think we're very compatible. Why don't you save us both some time and not wait until the Key Ceremony? I'll have someone help you pack your things."

"What? You're sending me away?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

"I can't believe you're keeping that goody-two-shoes Teresa Lisbon over me. A woman like her will never truly satisfy you, Patrick. You have a darkness in you that I recognize, a worldliness that she couldn't possibly understand."

He rose, nodding to one of the director's assistants off camera. "You might be right, Erica, but she brings out the best in me, makes me a better man. If you and I were together, nothing good would come from that."

"You're making a mistake," she said, trying desperately to retain her dignity.

He shrugged. "Not tonight."

They had to cut filming when she began to use words that wouldn't make it past the censors.

Patrick turned his back on her, and went in search of a good, stiff drink.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

In the end, with Kristina and Erica gone, that left only three remaining ladies to excuse from the show that night. He chose women randomly, uncaring who stayed or went. Teresa and Grace were safe with their keys, and he was somewhat sorry that he was leading Grace on when he knew damn well she could never be the woman for him.

He'd spent the rest of the cocktail party pleasantly chatting with the bachelorettes, while he made a point to put in every mind how much he admired Teresa. He'd made no moves to kiss or encourage any of them. But after the ceremony, he kissed Teresa passionately on the mouth in front of all of them, making it very clear who was his favorite. He was pleased when two more women left that night of their own accord. Mr. Right, they had seen, was clearly off the market. His plan was beginning to work, and there was nothing Stiles could do about it. With the extra two ladies leaving, he probably just cut the show down by one or two more episodes. He caught the producer's eye between filming, and while he seemed put out, Stiles made no move to speak to him.

"Seven down, six more to go," Patrick said to his reflection as he undressed in his bathroom later. He smiled to himself in satisfaction.

He'd finally settled into bed at around three in the morning when he heard a knock on his door. His heart picked up speed, and he wondered if Teresa had snuck next door to meet with him, to find out how his talk with Stiles had gone about their leaving the show early. He hadn't had a chance to be alone with her, to explain why he hadn't quit being Mr. Right, keeping his promise to run away with her. He rose and walked down the hall from the master suite to the front door of the borrowed house, wearing only boxer shorts and a t-shirt.

But when he opened the door, his smile faded, for it wasn't Teresa at all coming for a clandestine meeting.

It was Lorelei.

 **A/N: Erica may be gone (or is she?), but Lorelei still has a bet to win. Thanks for reading, and God Bless America as we remember our fallen heroes today.**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: I know it's been awhile, but my only excuse has been enjoying my vacation. Thanks for the reviews, and for your kind patience.**

 **Chapter 8**

Patrick frowned warily at the dark-haired woman at his door. Mindful of the hidden cameras likely filming every moment, he silently vowed the woman would not get past the threshold.

"Lorelei," he said, "to what do I owe this surprise visit?"

She was still wearing the gorgeous (and short) dress she'd worn to the cocktail party, but her brown eyes had the glossiness of one who'd had one too many shots of tequila.

She leaned clumsily forward, her hands resting on his bare forearms for support. She looked up at him enticingly. "I suppose I'm breaking all the rules, but I just wasn't satisfied with our short talk earlier—especially when we mostly talked about Teresa."

Patrick tried valiantly not to smile at that, struggling to keep his expression neutral for her as well as for the cameras.

"Yes, it is difficult to get to speak to everyone an equal length of time. We may as well be speed dating."

She smiled dreamily. "It sure seemed like it. So I'm sure you can understand why I snuck out to try to grab more time with you…alone."

Her hands slid up his tan forearms to his pleasingly muscled biceps, her fingers slipping beneath the sleeves of his white t-shirt, lightly scratching him with her sharp nails. The motion grated on his nerves, and his hands rose to catch her wrists, gently but firmly lowering them from his arms. She was like a little octopus, however, and her hands brazenly landed on his boxer short-clad hips, pulling him with surprising strength toward her body till her hands rested on his ass. His jaw clenched in annoyance, especially when he stumbled backwards and crossed the threshold. With her momentum, she pushed him further into the foyer with a girlish laugh and kicked the door closed behind her.

"All right, all right," he said, stepping away from the she-devil. "It's been a long night, Lorelei. I think we'd better continue this conversation tomorrow. You'll probably wake up and regret this in the morning, and I wouldn't want you to be embarrassed. We'll just chalk this up to one too many visits to the open bar. Besides, there's only so much temptation one man can stand." He hoped her drunkenness would leave her deaf to his dry sarcasm.

He walked around her and grabbed the doorknob, pushing her safely outside while slowly closing the door between them.

"But you don't know what you're missing, pal," she hissed at the door.

"I'm sure," he replied, and he turned the lock dismissively. "Good night, Lorelei."

Lorelei looked up at the camera that was mounted above Mr. Right's front door.

"He'll regret this," she said coldly, and turned abruptly away. Whoever was watching could not have missed the deadly, suddenly sober expression on her otherwise beautiful face.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

The next day found Patrick groggy from lack of sleep and tension that there were still more encounters like the ones with Erica and Lorelei to come. Today, there would be a two-on-one date, and this time he chose Teresa and the lovely Dr. Lily Montague, whom he had learned at the cocktail party was a decision scientist, whatever that was. The director and producer were not happy that he had chosen Teresa so soon for another date.

"There are several _other_ ladies who would love to have a date with you," advised Brenda Shettrick. "And it certainly would make more interesting viewing if you spent more time with them, not to mention how you are limiting yourself to only a few options."

"I have free choice of who comes on my dates," he reminded them both stubbornly. "It says so in my contract—and _not_ in the fine print. Besides, I've barely spoken to Lily, so she's new to me."

What probably irked him more, thought Patrick, was that on a two-on-one date, usually one woman was sent home that night in some dramatic "who's he gonna choose" moment, and Stiles knew damn well it wouldn't be Teresa. Selfishly, Patrick needed more time with Teresa, and with Lily along, he wouldn't have to worry about being eaten alive by the likes of Lorelei.

Walter Mashburn greeted the bachelorettes on camera in their living room, giving them the news of the infamous two-on-one date. The announcement of the two women chosen was met with audible noises of disappointment and frustration. Teresa and Dr. Montague, however, were all smiles.

"The date begins now, ladies," said Mashburn. "Grab your beach gear. We're heading to Catalina Island!"

The women clapped and a few more enthusiastic souls cheered. After there were enough suitable reactions recorded, the cameras went away and the crew was abuzz with preparations to film the hour-long cruise to the small island about twenty miles off the coast of California. As Teresa and Dr. Montague headed toward their rooms to get ready, Mashburn snagged Teresa by the arm.

"Hey…I think I've screwed this up with you somehow," he said softly, guiding her to their familiar little alcove by the side door.

"There's nothing to screw up, Walter. I want to be with Patrick now; simple as that. I would like to be your friend, so if you want things to be pleasant between us, you'll give me some space, okay? No offense."

Mashburn frowned. "I'm really sorry to hear that, Teresa. I thought we had a spark. But if you're feeling it with Patrick, I won't get in the way." He leaned closer to her, watching with satisfaction as her green eyes widened at his invasion of her personal space.

"But keep this in mind, sweetheart. These matchmaker shows only work about a quarter of the time, so odds are, even if he ends up picking you, you might never make it to the altar."

Teresa merely glared, waiting patiently for him to finish so she could get ready to see the man she loved. Undaunted, he continued.

"And I'm just putting this out here—when it all falls apart, good old Walter here will be there for you to help pick up the pieces. No judgment. The past will be forgotten." He reached out his hand and chucked her gently beneath her chin. "Are you hearing me, Teresa? I'm being totally sincere."

"I hear you, Walter. Thanks for the offer. Now, if you'll excuse me, I don't want to leave my date waiting…"

Mashburn put one hand out to stop her, and with the other, he reached inside his suit coat, bringing out his cell phone. He had one more card to play.

"Before you leave, there's something I think you should see. It's rough footage, but, I think you deserve to see it here first, instead of on TV in a few months when the show airs." Immediately she thought of her intimate night with Patrick, and she braced herself for the embarrassment.

He pressed a few buttons on his phone, then a video appeared on the small screen. The footage was dated early this morning and either the sound was turned off or there was none with the video. She squinted at a familiar figure shown knocking on a door. Lorelei? Her heart picked up speed, for she instinctively knew what else was coming. Patrick, she saw, was opening the door in his boxers and a t-shirt. It must be his house next door. After a minute talking, the woman reached for him, her hands on the same tight ass she herself had caressed very recently. Lorelei backed him inside and the door shut behind them. The video ended, and Mashburn clicked off his screen.

"Sorry to have to do that, but you deserved to know. You aren't the only one in contention for him. You'd be wise to remember that before you get your heart broken."

"How long was she in there," Teresa whispered, her face devoid of color.

Mashburn shrugged. "I don't know. That's all the footage I have. Teresa, I—"

"I have to go," said Teresa numbly, her first instinct to run again, like she did at the vineyard. She fled for the stairs, leaving Mashburn alone in the alcove.

Alone in her room, Teresa sat on Erica's old bed, catching her breath. She'd been misled before, and she wanted to give Patrick the benefit of the doubt, but she still didn't know if he had spoken to Stiles about leaving the show early. They were both still here, going through the motions of dating, despite his assurances that he loved her, and _only_ her. Still, she remembered the bet Lorelei and Erica had made about who would get him into bed first. Erica was gone, but Lorelei still had a chance to win. Maybe she was collecting her five thousand dollars at that very moment.

Grace came in the bedroom, saw Teresa sitting tensely, starring blankly at the floor.

"Are you okay, Teresa? Shouldn't you be changing into your bathing suit?"

She glanced up at the gorgeous redhead that she was supposed to be protecting instead of focusing on her love life. It was on the tip of her tongue to confess that she was Grace's bodyguard, but she stopped herself. She would be gone today, and would have to make arrangements for that with security. Seeing Grace reminded her again of her misunderstanding in the vineyard. She'd misinterpreted Patrick's true feelings then; she wasn't going to do something rash because of Walter Mashburn's attempts at manipulating her again.

She stood, forcing herself to say brightly: "Yes! I was just a little overwhelmed for a minute. I'd better get to it."

"You're very lucky," said Grace. "I had such fun with him in Napa. He's such a wonderful man."

"Yes," Teresa agreed, this time her smile genuine, "he really is."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Later, on the private yacht that would take them to Catalina Island, Teresa, Lily Montague, and Patrick sat on the deck, sipping champagne and enjoying the ocean breeze.

"So, tell me what a decision scientist is," said Patrick to Dr. Montague.

Teresa looked at her co-date with interest.

Lily smiled, her cheeks flushing a little as she warmed to her favorite topic. "I use data to create an algorithm that helps predict some human behaviors."

"Interesting," said Patrick politely. Teresa could tell he either didn't get the scientific mumbo jumbo, or more likely, didn't believe in its voracity.

"Like when predicting a serial killer's next victims?" Teresa injected. "I've uh, heard that state law enforcement uses algorithms like yours for such things. It can be very helpful in solving some crimes." She'd actually worked with scientists like her when she was with the CBI.

"Yes!" said Lily. "And one particular algorithm of mine is what compelled me to apply for this show." She glanced shyly at Patrick Jane in his board shorts and Hawaiian print shirt. The sun glinted off his golden, windblown curls; beach bum was a good look for him.

Patrick raised an amused eyebrow. "Oh, really? And what did your algorithm say?"

"You really want to know this?" she asked, her brown eyes sparkling, though her expression was otherwise calm.

"I do," said Teresa. She liked the woman, maybe because she could sense Patrick had no romantic interest in her.

"Well…I took the personal information from all the participants in the _Mr. Right_ show since the first season aired ten years ago, including their weight, height, an analysis of their facial features, hair color, etcetera, then used my algorithm to see if it correctly predicted whom each Mr. Right ultimately chose. I was able to accurately predict 98.8 percent of the time."

"That's amazing!" said Teresa sincerely.

"Interesting," Patrick repeated blandly.

"So," Dr. Montague continued, "when I found out _you_ were Mr. Right this time, Patrick, I gathered as much public data that I could on you, plugged my own stats in, and, based on initial projections…the algorithm predicted there was a 74.7 percent chance that you will pick me! Those are pretty good odds, I concluded, so I submitted an audition video, and, low and behold, I was selected to be on the show. Now, I'm actually out on a date with you!"

She glanced guiltily at Teresa. "No, offense, Teresa, but my program is rarely wrong."

Teresa grinned. "That's okay. Your results weren't 100 percent, so I'm not giving up hope yet."

"Ain't science grand," said Patrick wryly. Then his expression turned mischievous. "Did you by chance check me out, make sure I don't have psychopathic tendencies or something?"

"That's the first thing I did, actually. And while I did find you have a few latent _sociopathic_ characteristics, I feel secure enough by the results that, were you to choose me to be you wife, we would still get on famously." She leaned closer to him, her voice lowering conspiratorially. "In all honesty, Patrick, I have a few of those tendencies myself."

Teresa laughed out loud, mainly at Patrick's obvious dismay at Dr. Montague's scientific findings.

"Ain't science grand," Teresa teased, taking another drink of champagne. Patrick met her eyes, saw the laughter there and inclined his head in shared amusement.

"Are you always this fun on dates?" Patrick asked, though not unkindly.

Dr. Montague smiled self-consciously. "My friends do say I tend to talk too much about my work. I'm sorry, but you did ask."

"No need for apology. I'm thoroughly enjoying myself right now."

"Really? Because if I could just get a few intimate details from you, I can run the algorithm and see how compatible we might be sexually, even before we ever—"

Patrick raised a staying hand. "No, no. That's okay. If we ever do wind up in bed, Doctor, I'd like there to be a good amount of mystery, wouldn't you? We wouldn't want things to be too predictable in the bedroom."

Teresa was struggling very hard not to totally lose it.

Lily blushed again. "Sorry. I've overshared again. I fear I'm a tad socially backward. Too much time in the lab, I suppose."

"I didn't notice that at all," he replied kindly.

The scientist tentatively touched his hairy knee, looking intently into his eyes-more blue than green today, with the Pacific Ocean in the background. Teresa tried to look anywhere but at the awkward scene playing out before her, and finally, when she saw Dr. Montague's hand slip beneath the hem of his shorts, she excused herself to go to the yacht's cabin.

She ignored Patrick's pleading gaze, finding refuge in the restroom before she laughed heartily into a thick bath towel. Still, she felt sorry for Lily Montague, and she wasn't laughing at the scientist; rather, she was laughing at Patrick's deer-in-the-headlights reactions. On the contrary, Teresa had great respect for what the doctor did, and she had personally benefitted from such an algorithm when tracking a serial killer's next moves back at the CBI. No, she was sad for Lily, because she obviously had a huge crush on Patrick, and the feeling was clearly (at least to Teresa) not mutual. Teresa couldn't think of a worse thing in the world than unrequited love for Patrick Jane.

She looked at her sun flushed face in the mirror. "How lucky am I?" she said to her reflection.

Teresa spent a few more minutes in the bathroom, pulling herself together and thinking of the exciting prospect of being with Patrick for the entire day.

xxxxxxxxxxx

Later that evening, after a day filled with biking around the island, snorkeling, and a picnic lunch on the beach, the three of them were checked into rooms at an elegant local hotel, where they could rest, shower, and get ready for dinner at a seafood restaurant near the marina. It wasn't as uncomfortable as Patrick would have expected a threesome date to be (cameras notwithstanding), and having two beautiful women around him all day in bikinis wasn't a bad way to spend one's time. But of course, despite his appreciation for Lily's loveliness, he really only had eyes for Teresa, and it was difficult to keep his hands off of her while they swam side by side or sat on the beach blanket.

He did his best to be affable toward Lily, but while she sunbathed, he took Teresa's hand and walked down the beach, the camera crew following. He stopped out of earshot of the snoozing doctor.

"I've had a great day," he said softly to Teresa, reaching up to put a lock of her damp hair behind her ear. "I've missed you."

"Me too," she said, and he pulled her into his arms and kissed her as if they were completely alone.

"I love you," he told her, uncaring now of who was listening. He didn't give a damn if telling a woman this early on the show ruined the surprise at the end; it served Stiles right.

"I love you too," she replied bravely, and they kissed until he was afraid he wouldn't be able to stop. Then, with a laugh, he pulled her back out into the waves until she was clinging to him in water where she could not touch, and he kissed her salt-tinged lips.

Now, a few hours later, he awaited his two dates at the bayside restaurant, dressed casually in khaki slacks and another Hawaiian shirt. The sun was just going down when the women appeared, both wearing long, flowy sundresses and strappy sandals. Teresa had allowed her hair to curl naturally, and it fell in waves about her shoulders. They were all sun-kissed and rosy from the afternoon at the beach, and Patrick wished once more that he and Teresa were completely alone.

They dined on fresh seafood and engaged in easy conversation, but Patrick made no move to take Dr. Montague off for a private conversation. Instead, when they'd finished eating, he took the large golden key that lay in the middle of the table and presented it to Teresa.

"It's no secret I want to be with you," he told her. "So will you please accept this key to my heart?"

"Yes," she said, and leaned in for his kiss. After a few moments, Patrick turned soberly to Lily.

"I'm sorry, Doc, but I don't think there are any sparks between us. I think it might be time to say goodbye."

"But," she sputtered, "my algorithm says—"

"You can't quantify love with science, I'm afraid. The only thing even close to it is chemistry, and I'm not sure our chemistry flows beyond friendship. I do find you brilliant, fascinating, and a beautiful woman to boot. A better man than me is out there somewhere for you. Put away your computer now and then, and you just might find him."

She shook her head sadly, and he was dismayed to see her eyes filling with tears. "But I've never found one who is a better match for me than you."

He smiled, rising from his seat to reach for her hand. "You will. I promise. May I walk you back to the hotel?"

Patrick nodded to Teresa before he walked away, Dr. Montague on his arm.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

Teresa dug into her shrimp cocktail while she waited for Patrick's return. Walter Mashburn took the opportunity to occupy the seat her lover had just vacated. She glanced up at the host, not even trying to mask her irritation.

"So you love him now, eh? Well that was fast."

"It was. But when it's right, it's right."

"And that video of Lorelei entering his house last night did nothing to dissuade you? Did you ask him about that?"

"No, and I'm not going to. I'm choosing to trust him, because that's what you do when you love somebody."

Mashburn watched her as she took a bite out of an impressive jumbo shrimp, soaked liberally in spicy cocktail sauce. She closed her eyes in appreciation, licked a fleck of red sauce from her lips. He stifled a groan.

"You're taking great delight in tormenting me, aren't you?"

She opened her green eyes and smiled. "Yes. Now, scram, before my date gets back."

"Actually, I have some unfortunate news for you. There's been a mishap back at the house in LA."

Teresa calmly laid down her shrimp fork, though her heart was racing in her chest. "Is it Grace?"

Walter nodded, reaching for her hand. "They had to take her to the Emergency Room."

Teresa took the napkin from her lap, throwing it down on the table and standing up at the same time. "Well, get me the hell back to the mainland right now!"

Xxxxxxxxxxx

 _Earlier that day…_

After his frustrating talk with Teresa that morning, Mashburn drew Lorelei aside, ironically pulling her into the same alcove where Teresa had only recently rejected his offer of help.

"What can I do for you Walter?" the sexy brunette asked him flirtatiously. He was momentarily distracted by her cleavage revealed to its best advantage in her tight v-neck t-shirt. _If this thing with Teresa doesn't work out…_

He lowered his voice and looked intently into her velvety brown eyes. "Let me offer you some free advice: you've got to do a little better than sneaking into Patrick's room if you want to seduce him away from Teresa Lisbon."

Her simpering mask dropped immediately. "What do you care?"

"Hey, I'm just trying to give the network a good show."

Her eyes narrowed. She didn't believe him, but he didn't care.

"Or maybe you're interested in Teresa," she countered slyly. "I've seen the way you look at her."

He chose to ignore that particular insight. "Look, it's no secret about your little wager with Erica; let me help you collect."

She looked briefly startled. "What wager?"

Mashburn motioned with one finger at the general area around them. "In case you hadn't noticed, there are cameras everywhere. Big Brother Stiles is watching everything we do and say. Except for this spot, I can assure you. Now, do you want my help or not?"

She crossed her arms over that fantastic bosom. "Fine. Shoot."

"The key to getting Teresa out of here, is getting Grace out first. If she goes, Teresa will follow soon after, I guarantee you."

She looked skeptical, but still interested. "What does Princess Grace have to do with Miss Goody-Two-Shoes? I know they're chummy, but…"

"Trust me," said Mashburn with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"What would you have me do?"

His hand came up to briefly caress her soft olive cheek. "I'll leave the details to you, Lorelei. You seem to be a very resourceful woman."

"Walter! Where the hell is Walter?" It was Shettrick calling for him.

"Take my advice or not," he told her, "but unless something happens soon, Teresa has already won this whole enchilada."

Lorelei watched him go, her devious mind already forming the kernel of a plan.

A/N: Thanks for reading.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: I continue to be grateful and touched by your patience and kind reviews. I'm sorry some had a problem with my making Mashburn a bit of a scoundrel in this story, but you certainly saw that side of him in the two episodes on the show. Anyway, without Red John** ** _, someone_** **had to be the villain** **;). This chapter has a bit of coarse language and a rated M scene, just to warn you.**

 **Chapter 9**

Teresa's eyes shot daggers at Brenda Shettrick.

"No cameras," she hissed under her breath. "You know why."

Brenda frowned, but she motioned the man with the handheld camera to leave the hospital room. Despite the contracts that said they had every right to film Teresa and Patrick's visit to Grace, the last thing Brenda wanted was Grace van Pelt's father to be on her back. The senator was already on his way from Sacramento.

With the crew gone, Teresa glanced at Patrick with concern as they stood by the pale girl in the bed. A small cut marred her temple, and her right arm was in a cast, resting upon the covers at her side. She was lucky that these were her only injuries, given her nasty fall down the stairs of the mansion.

The patient opened her eyes and looked groggily at her visitors. Patrick reached for her left hand.

"Hey," he said, smiling gently. "If you wanted to get my attention, you didn't have to go to such drastic lengths," he teased.

"It worked, didn't it?"

He chuckled. "I guess it did."

"What happened?" asked Teresa.

Grace's eyebrows knit, and she cringed a little in pain. "I…I don't know really. One minute I was at the top of the stairs, the next—I woke up in the ambulance feeling like every bone in my body was broken."

"Just the one, apparently," supplied Jane, glancing at her right arm.

"Yeah, and it hurts like hell."

"No one witnessed your fall?" Teresa persisted. "No one was with you at the top of the stairs?"

"I don't remember, I—" Grace stared at Teresa in dawning realization. "You're my body guard, aren't you?"

Teresa briefly looked at Patrick, a hint of regret marring her pretty features. "Yes. Your father thought it best I stayed as close as I could to you. Being on the show wasn't originally part of the plan, but I uh, couldn't pass up the opportunity. Back to you though. How do you think you managed to fall? You don't seem like you are very awkward on your feet usually."

"No, I'm not. But I _was_ wearing a long skirt and healed sandals. I might have simply tripped…"

Teresa nodded. "I'll get hold of the camera footage in the house. Maybe I'll be able to see something you couldn't."

Grace frowned. "You're thinking someone might have _pushed_ me down the stairs?"

"Unless you remember exactly what happened, or until I get confirmation there was no foul play, I'm going to assume this was no accident, given the circumstances."

"Okay," Grace replied hesitantly. Her eyes met Patrick's. "So, I guess you know what's going on, then, right?"

"Yeah. And in the spirit of complete disclosure, you should know that Teresa and I are together, and I'm just contractually obligated to continue on the show. I think you're a lovely woman, Grace, but when I met Teresa, I knew there could be no one else for me. I'm sorry to have put you through all this. I know it's not fair to you, or to any of the other women, but—"

"It's okay," she said, squeezing his hand. The color rushed back into her cheeks. "I'm not saying I'm not disappointed, but I had a feeling you were just being kind to me, that we weren't on the same page. Besides, I think maybe you're a little too old for me." The last sentence was delivered with a mischievous grin. Patrick laughed, and leaned down to kiss her cheek.

"If I were ten years younger…" he whispered.

"You'd still be in love with Teresa; I can tell by the way you keep sneaking glances at each other." The lovers guiltily snuck another glance, and Grace rolled her eyes.

Teresa grinned sheepishly. "I'm sorry for ruining your time on the show. I promise you, that wasn't my intention."

"Sorry for taking my man?" Grace teased. "Don't worry about it. Other fish in the sea, and all that."

Teresa and Patrick were struck by her good-natured forgiveness, but that still didn't take away from Teresa's guilt, at least about one aspect of the whole situation.

"I should have been here with you, doing my job instead of playing on the beach all day," she confessed. "And if this _was_ your father's stalker, I'll never be able to forgive myself. There's no excuse for it."

"Is my dad coming?" Grace asked, amber eyes filled with dread.

"I had to call him, unfortunately for both of us. He's on his way from DC." Whether or not Grace's fall had been an accident, there would be hell to pay for her absence from the mansion.

Before Grace could reply, there was a light tap on the hospital room door, and Teresa to see the familiar face of Wayne Rigsby framed in the small glass window. After she had spoken to Rigsby the day before, she had told the show's security team that a colleague of hers might show up, and gave them his name and physical description. She motioned Rigsby into the room.

"Excuse me, Boss, but the head of security on the set told me you were here. And so I uh, I—" When Rigsby's gaze landed on Grace, his eyes widened, and his sentence stuttered to an abrupt halt. Teresa resisted the urge to look heavenward, but one glance at Grace, looking like a fairy princess, her red tresses spread about the pillow, and she understood Rigsby's very masculine reaction.

"Wayne Rigsby, this is Grace Van Pelt and Patrick Jane. Wayne's one of my partners in my security firm…Wayne?" She was about to snap her fingers in front of his face when he suddenly woke up.

"Uh, yeah," he said, reaching automatically toward Grace's broken right hand, blushing, then reaching awkwardly for her left, which she offered with an amused smirk. "Very nice to meet you," said Rigbsy, and Grace returned the sentiment.

He forgot to shake Patrick's hand, and Patrick smiled at Teresa, thoroughly entertained at the romantic tableau before them.

"I assume you have something for me, on that matter we discussed yesterday?" prompted Teresa.

"Uh, yeah, Boss. Sure." He reluctantly tore his gaze away from Grace. "Maybe we should discuss this outside."

The pair went outside into the hall, relatively quiet this time of night.

"God, she's beautiful," Teresa heard him say under his breath. He shook his head a little to clear it.

"What did you find out about Stiles?"

Away from Grace, Rigsby found it much easier to focus. "I found nothing. Absolutely nothing, except basic background information. Born in London. Went to Oxford. Made TV shows for the BBC, then came to the US about twenty years ago and came to LA where he's made a name for himself producing reality TV shows. He's never been married. No kids. You could get all this info on IMDB. I mean, this guy is meticulously clean. No gossip, no scandals, no tragedies. It's almost like he hired someone to trail behind him and clean up any messes before they became public."

Teresa's face fell. There went her chance to take down Stiles so she and Patrick could leave the show and start their real lives together. She sighed wearily.

"Okay. Keep looking. Find out who is in his inner circle—starting with Brenda Shettrick, and try to see if she'll share anything. There's something going on between those two, I'd bet my life on it."

"I'll get right on that."

At that moment, Patrick came out of Grace's hospital room.

"Hey. Mr. Rigsby, would you mind if I spoke to Teresa a minute?"

"Uh, sure." He cast a meaningful look at Teresa, who blushed, but covered her discomfiture by nodding toward Grace's room.

"Rigsby, stay with Grace till I get back."

He looked like he'd been given a gold medal, and his face relaxed into a wide grin.

"Sure thing, Boss!"

"Come with me," said Patrick, taking Teresa's hand. He led her down the hallway, darting quickly past the waiting room where Brenda Shettrick and the cameraman were biding their time, taking advantage of the vending machines. He found a dark room and tried the door. It opened, and he pulled her inside, locking the door behind them. The next thing she knew, he was pressing her body against a wall, his lips descending on hers and ravaging her mouth with all of the pent-up desire of the past two days. Teresa's hands went to his hair, reveling in its sensual softness while his tongue tangled with hers and his body pushed eagerly against her.

He lifted his mouth for air, moving to her neck before whispering in her ear. "I've been dreaming of this," he said, his hands reaching down to gather up the hem of the sundress she still wore, to caress her bottom.

"Me too. And hey, look, there's a bed in here."

She could just see the flash of his teeth in the dim light. "You don't want me to take you against the wall?" He ground his hips against her stomach, and she closed her eyes at the suggestive hardness.

Her already racing heart jolted at the thought of how it had felt when his body had possessed hers. "As sexy as that sounds, I'm old enough to appreciate the comforts of a good bed."

He stepped reluctantly away, but held onto her when she nearly melted to the floor. They moved to the empty hospital bed and he drew the curtains around it, shielding them from the small window in the door.

"Not sure how good this bed is, but it'll serve our purposes nicely."

He pushed her gently until she was seated before him on the edge of the bed, and her hands automatically reached for his belt. He let her unbuckle it, let her slip her hand inside to firmly grasp him. He gasped, and he heard her soft hum of appreciation. He reached for the skirt of her dress again, drawing it up to her waist while he stroked her bare thighs. He bent to kiss her and she continued to torment him through his boxers. She pulled down his slacks, then his underwear, and he sprang free into her waiting hands. He groaned as her caresses became more enthusiastic. With his knee, he touched a button on the bedframe. It hummed to life, momentarily startling Teresa, before she realized he was raising the hospital bed to a more convenient height.

She laughed breathlessly as she was suddenly eye-to-eye with him and he kissed her again, simultaneously sliding her panties down over her knees. Grasping her hips, he took one small step forward and let her guide him into her body. They both stilled a moment, foreheads touching, their breathing sounding loud in the empty room.

He began to move within her, slowly at first, until the passion between them erupted and their movements became fast and frantic. His hands found the tight buds of her breasts, pinching them almost painfully through her bodice. She moaned at the pleasure of it, her own hands holding onto his shoulders for dear life. Soon, their passion propelled them to mutual ecstasy, and they shuddered in each other's arms.

"That's two fantasies you've fulfilled for me," she said after a few moments. She pulled down her dress and stood up on shaking legs. Patrick was zipping his fly, and reached for a nearby box of tissue to blot his perspiring forehead.

"Oh?" he asked, his heart still pounding in his ears.

"First, I finally found my Mr. Right. And second-"She glanced at the rumpled hospital bed. "My secret _Grey's Anatomy_ fantasy."

He laughed, and gathered her into his arms, kissing her flushed cheek. "And am I Doctor McHottie in this scenario?"

She chuckled softly. "That would be _McDreamy,_ but _McHottie_ certainly applies."

He kissed her smiling lips. "Anyone ever tell you, you watch way too much television?"

"No. That's one of my secret vices. But if I didn't love _this_ show so much, I wouldn't have taken the chance to go on it; I wouldn't have found you."

She found his lips again, tasted his rising desire.

"Someday you'll have to share with me the _rest_ of your secret vices," he told her.

"Or maybe you'll just have to read my mind, Mr. Mentalist."

They kissed, their mouths hot and insistent, until Teresa dragged her lips away from his. "I need to get back to Grace. I'm already in big trouble with her father. The barely contained rage on the phone was just a preview, I'm sure."

Patrick's eyes narrowed. "Did he threaten you?"

She was touched by his protectiveness. "No, not yet. But I don't blame him. I fell down on the job because I was a little distracted."

"Then I'm equally to blame."

She smiled. "Maybe I should call you Doctor Distraction instead."

He kissed the tip of her nose in amusement. "Speaking of distractions—what did Mr. Rigsby feel the need to come all the way from Sacramento to tell you?"

"I had him try to dig up some dirt on Stiles so we could have something on him too. But there's nothing out there. The man's squeaky clean."

"I doubt that. I'd bet my life he's had some wild times, especially in his younger days."

"If only we could prove it," she lamented.

"Don't worry, my love, we'll get out of this mess soon. I'm sorry I haven't been able to extricate myself from the show, but the risk to both our reputations is too great. If this thing between us is real, it'll withstand a few more weeks of dating other people, and I'll play along, but I'll make my true feelings very clear, even if you're off the show. In the end, I'll choose you, and then someday we won't have to sneak quickies in hospital rooms to get some privacy."

"Let's not be too hasty," she said, her hands stroking his stubbled cheek. "You haven't pulled me into a public restroom yet."

"Hmmm…I'm sensing that sex in public is one of those vices."

"It is now."

They walked to the door and she peaked out first to be sure they weren't seen. Brenda and her cameraman had given up and left, and, the coast clear, she walked back out into the hall, Patrick close beside her.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

The next morning, Mashburn accompanied the women of the house, except for Teresa, to Grace's bedside, where the entire visit was filmed for the show. Everyone—even Lorelei- seemed to adore the young woman, and there were genuine displays of sympathy in the guise of bouquets of flowers, balloons, and stuffed animals. Amidst the general hubbub, Mashburn found a moment to pull Lorelei aside.

"What the hell did you do? I didn't mean for you to hurt the girl."

Lorelei's eyebrows rose. "You left it up to me, remember? She's off the show now; she just told us so. We'll both get what we want."

"You idiot. I told you there are cameras everywhere in that house, including ones directed toward the stairs."

Her eyes widened. "I didn't see any cameras; I looked. I saw an opportunity, and I took it."

"You made it look like an accident at least, right?"

She frowned. "If there's video, you'd better get rid of it; but I'm not going down for this on my own. I'll tell everyone, including the press, that you put me up to it because you wanted Teresa for yourself."

He smiled grimly. "And what sort of sense does that make? Looks more like you wanted Grace out of the way so you could get Mr. Right."

"You bastard, you told me if Grace goes, Teresa goes too."

He shrugged. "Your word against mine, sweetheart, but the camera doesn't lie, and they won't see me anywhere near that staircase. I was on Catalina with the film crew."

Before Lorelei could come up with a suitable retort, Teresa appeared, accompanied by Patrick and two officers from the LAPD.

"Shit," Lorelei exclaimed, and fled for the nearest stairwell exit.

"Stop her!" Teresa yelled, and the cops took up pursuit.

Hearing the commotion in the hallway, the crew in Grace's room raced clumsily toward the door, just in time to catch on film one of the officers diving for Lorelei, tackling her before she could make her escape. The cop, kneeling on her back, none too gently clamped on the metal handcuffs. Teresa watched them in envy; it had been awhile since she'd had the pleasure of taking down a perp.

"Lorelei Martins," the officer huffed, pulling her to her feet, "you're under arrest for the attempted murder of Grace Van Pelt. You have the right to remain silent…"

"But I _won't_ be silent, Walter fuckin' Mashburn! You hear me, you bastard!"

By then, Mashburn had surreptitiously slipped back to stand near the crew, but all eyes and the camera swiveled to him as the police pushed Lorelei into the elevator. His TV host persona automatically kicked in, and he made some lame comments about the ravings of a madwoman, and expressed gratitude for Grace's having narrowly escaped death. Brenda stood by, getting angrier by the moment that Mashburn's inability to remain a professional distance from the bachelorettes was going to ruin the show.

"Cut!" she yelled, when she couldn't take it anymore. When the camera stopped, the women began talking at once. Brenda walked purposefully over to Mashburn, reaching out and grabbing his Armani-clad arm.

"If it comes out you had anything to do with this," she hissed, for his ears alone, "You won't be able to host a pig show at the county fair."

"I had nothing to do with it. I was on location with you, remember?" He shrugged off her arm, straightening his silk tie.

Teresa and Patrick walked around the milling and gossiping women to confront Mashburn, while hospital security and a few nurses attempted to hush them and usher them toward the stairs.

"What was Lorelei talking about, Walter?" Teresa demanded.

"How the hell would I know? Like I said before, that bitch was obviously crazy. You're well rid of her, Patrick."

"Oh, I agree. But don't forget," Patrick said, "Grace's father is a US Senator; he could make things very difficult for you. If you had a hand in this, you'd do well to confess now before you find yourself the most famous cellmate in LA County jail—and not just for your pretty face."

Mashburn paled. "Excuse me," he said with forced dignity, and headed for the elevator. He pressed the down button, and the door slid open immediately, revealing Senator Jeremiah Van Pelt and two Secret Service agents. Mashburn swallowed hard and waited for the men to exit before he got in, the elevator door closing on his somber expression. His hand trembled as he pressed the button for the parking garage.

Upon seeing the senator, Teresa's first instinct was to run to the stairwell herself, but then she felt Patrick take her hand in his, and the warmth of it coursed through her body, giving her the courage she needed to face up to her mistakes. He gave her hand a squeeze of reassurance, and she glanced over at him in gratitude.

 _I love you,_ he mouthed.

A ghost of a smile played upon her lips and she gave Patrick's hand an answering squeeze. She took a deep breath and began walking toward the senator.

"Senator Van Pelt," she began, "I'm very sorry to see you again under these circumstances…"

 **A/N: Thanks for reading. The conclusion is coming up next.**

 **P.S. Happy 4** **th** **of July to my American friends! God bless America!**


	10. Chapter 10: Conclusion

**A/N: Well, we are finally to the conclusion of this fic. I hope it adequately ties up all the lose ends and leaves you with your own feeling of closure. After the very end, you will also find a deleted scene. I wanted to bring back Erica (like the bad penny she was on** ** _The Mentalist),_** **but I wasn't ultimately happy with the scene I wrote, so I took it out. But I spent a lot of time on it, so I thought I would share it anyway. Hope it's not too cringeworthy, lol. You may agree that it was too silly.**

 **Chapter 10**

"You had _one_ job, Miss Lisbon: to keep my daughter safe. Where the hell were you when she was pushed down the goddamn stairs?"

Teresa felt her face flush scarlet with guilt and embarrassment as Grace Van Pelt's furious father towered over her in the hospital corridor. Everyone was acutely aware that the camera crew was still filming, and the bachelorettes were now standing in the hallway, their mouths open in awe of the excitement around them.

"Now wait a second," said Patrick, his voice deadly calm. He stepped protectively between them. "I understand you're upset, Senator, but there's no need for incivility here." The two Secret Service agents stepped menacingly closer to their charge.

"Who the hell are you?" asked the Senator, but then realization dawned. "Ah, you're the bachelor gigolo. This is none of your business."

"On the contrary—" Patrick began angrily, but Teresa had finally found her voice and put a hand on his arm to silence him. She stepped around him.

"Yes, I _did_ have a job, and I was derelict in my duty, sir. I accept full responsibility, and of course we can just forget my fee. I will pay for Grace's hospital bill and—"

"You certainly will not!" The trio in the hall looked up to see Grace standing unsteadily in the doorway of her hospital room, her broken arm held awkwardly against her breasts, while her other hand pulled her IV cart like a tethered puppy beside her.

"Daddy, this was not Teresa's fault. It was Lorelei Martins'. Teresa has been watching out for me, I realize that now. She was even staying in the same room with me. But she has a life, and I don't begrudge her that."

The senator had rushed to his daughter's side, his face a mask of concern. He immediately steered her back inside toward her bed.

"What the hell are you doing up?"

But the senator seemed to ignore her words as he helped Grace back into the bed, pulling up her blankets, adjusting her pillow, and making sure the IV line was straight. He glanced behind him to see the camera was still pointed at them. "Turn that damned thing off! I want some privacy with my daughter! And get all these other people out of here." He nodded at the two agents, who shut the door in the cameraman's face and, with the help of a nurse and an orderly, ushered the crew and the women contestants toward the elevators. Then the agents took their places just outside the hospital room door. Teresa and Patrick had managed to slip into the room with Grace and Senator Van Pelt.

"Did you hear me, Daddy? Please don't blame Teresa. After all, it was my idea to defy your wishes and go on the show to begin with. You were right; someone _was_ trying to kill me. I should have listened to you."

The senator reached down and caressed his daughter's bruised face, brushing back her hair from her forehead as he likely had done countless times when she was little. He smiled tenderly, his ire melting with the relief of knowing his child was all right.

"Everything's going to be okay, sweetheart. No need to worry now." He turned back to Teresa and Patrick.

"Our business here is done, Miss Lisbon. For one thing, I learned last night that the author of those threatening letters was apprehended in Sacramento-some mentally deranged kid who held me responsible for his father's murder because of my stance on gun control. News should hit the media today."

"So, Lorelei didn't attack Grace to get to you; it must have had to do with the show-some jealousy on her part." Teresa glanced at Patrick. Things were starting to fall into place, and Mashburn was firmly at the center of it, given Lorelei's screaming accusations when she was taken away by the police.

"Don't think this alleviates any of your responsibility, young woman" said the senator. "Because you didn't do your job, my daughter could have been killed. Now, I'd appreciate it if you left, along with _Mr. Wrong_ here." And he waved them away dismissively.

"Teresa, Patrick, wait," said Grace, frowning at her father. The couple approached her bed warily. "These two people are my friends, and I say when they go. They had nothing to do with my being here, and you're not going to bully them, Dad."

Her father's mouth formed an angry line, and she knew he would indulge her, but only for a minute.

"I'm not mad at either of you," Grace continued, "and I certainly don't blame you. I'm glad you've found each other."

"What?" said the senator, rounding on Teresa. "You two are _together_? So you managed to use my daughter, not to mention my money, to pick up a date?"

Patrick had had about enough of the man's bluster, and he lunged for the senator to punch his lights out. He would have done it had Teresa and the Secret Service agents, attracted by the senator's raised voice, not stopped him. Teresa held him Patrick back, perp style, her surprisingly strong arms holding his behind him.

"He's not worth spending time in a federal pen," she growled into his ear. Assaulting a US Senator was a federal crime. The fight went out of him somewhat, and he allowed the agents to calmly haul him out of the room, escorting him to the elevator.

"You'd better hope I never see either of you again."

Teresa fervently shared that hope, though for not the same ominous reasons the senator had. Grace looked apologetically at Teresa, but this time she knew better than to push her father anymore while he was this upset. There was his heart to think about.

"I'm sorry," Teresa said to both Grace and her father, then ran after Patrick.

He was waiting for her just outside the hospital's main doors, still fuming. He took her icy hands in his, looking critically into her pale face.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yeah. That was tougher than I thought it would be."

"You should have let me hit the bastard; I know _I_ would have felt better."

She smiled a little at that. "Not that I don't appreciate your defending my honor and all, but that guy was a decorated Marine…"

Patrick raised his eyebrows. "You mean he would have wiped the floor with me?"  
She shrugged. "Well, if _he_ hadn't, the Secret Service surely would have."

He drew her closer, wrapping his arms around her. "Your faith in my physical prowess is overwhelming," he said dryly.

"You're a lover, not a fighter," she soothed, smiling against his vest. "Besides, they had guns."

"You're just trying to make me feel better."

She felt him kiss the top of her head, take a deep, calming breath. After a moment, she drew reluctantly away from him and they began walking hand in hand toward the parking lot.

"I wonder what will happen with the show now," she asked. "Two more of your prospects are eliminated, and I bet if we checked the internet, the video of Lorelei's arrest will be on the way to viral by now." Teresa had no doubt someone in that hospital had recorded the whole damn thing. Actually, she wouldn't put it past Stiles to leak it himself, just to boost ratings.

"It doesn't matter; I quit."

They'd reached her rental car and she stopped abruptly. "You can't, Patrick. Are you forgetting that video Stiles has of _us_?"

He had, actually, for a blissful few hours. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, swearing under his breath. "Maybe I can find a way to break into his office and delete the thing."

Before Teresa could discourage him from yet another illegal activity, a car pulled up in the empty space next to theirs. Rigsby, in his own rental. He disembarked, awkwardly maneuvering his long legs out of the economy car. He reached back in to retrieve a blue file folder.

"Hey, Boss. This is your lucky day."

He walked around his car and handed Teresa the folder. She glanced at Rigsby's excited face, then opened it. It was a print-off of an email from a mutual friend who still worked for the CBI. She scanned the document, her eyes growing wider with each sentence.

"Oh my God, Rigsby; you're a genius!"

Rigsby blushed, his grin spreading from ear to ear. Patrick moved to stand closer so he could read over Teresa's shoulder. "What is it?"

"We got him, Patrick-Stiles. Apparently he was a founding member of the religious cult, Visualize, though back then he went by a different name, obviously fake: William Blake."

"Like the poet?" asked Patrick.

"Yeah."

"Well, that's interesting…" He was drawing a blank as to the significance of this supposedly damaging information on Stiles.

"Don't you read the news? Red John, the serial killer, whose crime syndicate had infiltrated the CBI, was the _other_ founder of the cult, called the William Blake Association. The AG and the FBI came in and cleaned house, firing everyone in Serious Crimes who had worked on the case under suspicion that they might have been on the take from Red John. Even though my team caught and killed the bastard, we all got the ax. We were later fully exonerated, but Rigsby and my other business partner, Cho, vowed we'd never go back after they'd treated us like crap, so we started our own investigative and security firm."

"So Stiles is a serial killer too?" asked Patrick. Of course he'd heard of the Red John murders and the man's dramatic demise at the hands of the CBI. He hadn't heard who'd brought him down, however. He looked on Teresa now with new eyes; she was even more formidable than he'd thought. It wasn't like him to underestimate someone so much; love must be blind. He grinned.

But Teresa was frowning at his half-serious question. "I don't know. Red John's partner supposedly got out of Visualize long ago, but we never could find the man, never learned who he really was." She looked over at Rigsby. "They must have found him after we left, when all the resources of the FBI got involved."

Rigsby nodded. "That's what Reed said when I called him after he sent that email. They questioned Stiles, but they could never link him to any of Red John's crimes, and Stiles claimed that when the religious aspects of Visualize started to take on cult-like status, he got out fast, and never looked back. The FBI never released Stiles's name in connection to Red John, in exchange for his full cooperation and all the background information he could give on Red John's origins."

"They found out Red John was a county sheriff," Patrick added, some of the details from two years ago coming back.

"Yeah," said Teresa. "We'd actually worked with the man in that capacity in the CBI. He was right under our noses the whole damn time." She shook her head in remembrance of, in her mind, a past failure. One look at Rigsby, and Patrick read similar bitterness there.

"At any rate," Teresa concluded, "we now have something on Stiles that if it got out could ruin his career."

"The FBI wouldn't be too happy about that," said Rigsby. "There are still aspects of the investigation that are ongoing. They're still not sure they've found everyone who was a member of the Blake Association…"

"Well, Stiles doesn't need to know that, and hopefully just the threat of us leaking this information will keep him in line."

"What's he got on you, Boss?" asked Rigsby. It seemed pretty clear now either she or Jane was being blackmailed. "I don't mean to pry, but this seems really personal."

"It is," she said, closing the folder. Impulsively, she gave Rigsby a big hug of gratitude. "Thanks, Wayne. You're a life-saver. If you want, you can head back home. Hopefully I'll be back up there in a few days. I'm sorry I screwed up our chance at getting paid by Van Pelt. I'll think of something else to save us, I promise."

Rigbsy didn't seem too concerned. "I know you will, Boss. And besides, you deserve a little happiness." He nodded toward Patrick. Rigsby could see the writing on the wall where the two of them were concerned, and he really was happy for her. "Oh, by the way…I couldn't get a meeting with Brenda Shettrick, but I was able to talk to the onset security guys. She and Stiles are totally doing it."

"As I guessed," said Patrick, who had suspected as much all along. "This means she likely knows what Stiles is up to as well, and is probably in on the whole thing with him." He shivered dramatically. "Yuck."

Teresa concurred, blanching at the thought of the two of them together.

"Good job, Rigsby. Now, I guess we need to go find Stiles. See you back in Sacramento."

As Teresa and Patrick drove away, Patrick happened to look in the side mirror. He saw that Rigsby didn't immediately get back into his car, but reached back inside for a large bouquet of flowers. Patrick grinned as the young swain shut his car door and walked back toward the hospital, a definite spring in his step.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Well, Patrick, you'll be pleased to know that, given the scandals that have rocked this season, the network has pulled the plug on the whole damn thing."

They'd found Stiles in his office on the network studio lot in Hollywood. On the shelves behind his large mahogany desk were a few Emmy statuettes and a Golden Globe. Posters of his various past projects hung artfully on the walls.

"Then I suppose we won't have to resort to this," said Teresa, tossing the blue folder onto his desk.

He eyed it warily, and Patrick could tell from the man's expression that he had a feeling he knew exactly what was inside it. He reached out a resigned hand and opened it, his face betraying no emotion as he read. After a moment, he looked up at his visitors.

"I'm found out, am I? How the devil did you get this information?"

"I used to work for the CBI," she said.

"Ah. Well, check mate, as it were." There was a sparkle of genuine appreciation in his blue eyes.

"Where's the video?" asked Patrick, cutting to the chase.

With a sigh, Stiles opened the laptop on his desk and pulled up the file, then turned it around so Patrick and Teresa could see it. Teresa, who knew more about technology than Patrick, stepped forward and deleted the file, then deleted the recycle bin's contents as well. She took out a flash drive and plugged it into the side of the computer, then, with the touch of a few keys, transferred all the other files on the computer to the flash drive before deleting them off the computer. She presented Stiles with the small device, then promptly shut the laptop and put it under her arm.

"You're taking my computer?"

"Yes. I know you could always get someone who could retrieve the video off your hard drive. I'll have my tech guy totally sweep it and returned to you later. I trust there are no other copies floating around…?"

"None, I swear it."

"Excuse me if I don't quite believe you," said Patrick. "And I suggest you speak to your lover and partner in crime Brenda, warn her that if we can dig up this kind of dirt on you, we'll spare no expense to get the goods on her as well. Keep in mind that the bit of information we have on you will hurt your career much more than that video will ours. One hint on the internet or on TV, and you're done for in this town, understand me? I did say you would regret this decision one day, if I remember right."

Stiles chuckled. "I underestimated you, Patrick. And for the record, I am genuinely sorry this whole thing didn't work out. It would have been a hell of a show."

Patrick reached for Teresa's hand. "Oh, I say it's worked out pretty well for me. I guess I owe you my thanks for that at least."

The adversaries shared smug grins. "I hope we meet again, Patrick, under much more…congenial circumstances."

Patrick shook his head. "You'll forgive me if I don't return the sentiment. Goodbye, Bret."

"Goodbye, Patrick. And farewell to you as well, lovely Teresa. And may I say, the camera adored your face. If your investigation business doesn't work out, you'll look me up, won't you?"

She sniffed indelicately. "Not likely."

"Pity."

As they stepped out of the office building they were nearly run over by a speeding red vintage Ferrari. Patrick had both heard the vehicle and caught sight of it out the corner of is eye just in time to pull Teresa out of the way. When Teresa saw who was driving, she wondered if the near miss had been intentional.

"That was Mashburn," said Patrick, trying to catch his breath. "Guess he's getting away before the police catch up with him."

"You're thinking he put Lorelei up to hurting Grace, aren't you?"

"Yeah, because he knew you were there to protect her," he said, "and he wanted you away from me."

He looked cautiously both ways in case he came back to try to finish the job, before taking her hand and walking again toward the car. She grasped it tightly; it had been a long time since someone had looked out for _her_ , and it made her love him all the more.

Xxxxxxxxxx

Patrick and Teresa spent the next three days holed up in a hotel room, waiting for the initial one-two media punch to die down a little. Senator Van Pelt had held a new conference after word had reached the airwaves that the man who had been threatening him and his family had been apprehended. At the same time, it began to seep out that the senator's daughter had been caught in the center of the _Mr. Right_ scandal, that she had been injured by a jealous contestant. Days before, it had already been leaked that Kristina had also had an accident on set and was still recovering in the hospital. Further fueling the flames of controversy surrounding the show, the host had mysteriously disappeared at the same time he'd been named a person of interest in Grace Van Pelt's assault. Everyone wondered whether the show would survive renewal.

To cap it all off, pictures of Patrick and Teresa were out there (thankfully, they were completely clothed) from the set of the show, kissing and looking blissfully into each other's eyes, and there was speculation that the two of them had ended up together, that Mr. Right had found his Mrs. in spite of it all.

Fortunately, LCR Surveillance and Investigations hadn't been implicated in the scandals, though some savvy social media expert had linked her likeness with the former CBI agent who had helped take down Red John. Teresa couldn't decide whether it was really good for business to have her picture front in center of every online gossip site and the subject of numerous tweets and shares. Back home, Cho said they were having to turn away prospective clients, and pleaded with Teresa to come back as soon as she could. He didn't rat out Rigsby, who had come straggling back two days later than he'd said he would, looking outrageously happy and gushing over his plans to meet Grace Van Pelt for dinner in San Francisco.

But while Teresa was worried about her firm, she wasn't too anxious to give up days spent in bed with Patrick along with all-night pizza and burger deliveries. For one thing, he lived in Southern California, and she was a day's drive to the north. They were both keenly aware of all that would soon divide them.

She lay now, naked against him on the bed, her head pillowed on his chest.

"We can't stay in this bubble forever," she said, her heartbeat still thrumming from their most recent exertions. "We both have responsibilities…"

"I hate to admit when you're right, but I must say, all this sex is getting pretty tedious."

She gave him a quick slap to his chest in retaliation, and though it stung a bit, he laughed.

"You hate to admit I'm right?" she repeated, affronted.

He laughed again. "I wondered which declaration you'd harp on first."

Her hand wandered lower beneath the sheet, and he gasped with renewed interest. "Well, I know you were clearly lying about the second part."

He lifted his head to kiss her, but before one thing could inevitably lead to another, he removed her hand from his most sensitive area.

"As much as I want to begin round—what is it today, four?—it is time to face reality. It's evening now, I think. This would be the best time to make our escape. I'll have the concierge get us a car, and I'll make arrangements for yours to be returned to the rental agency in the morning."

She sighed. "Okay. I call the shower first."

"You want some company?" he asked, his hand cupping her breast.

She took his wayward hand in hers and kissed his knuckle. "We'll never get out of here at this rate." She was pleased to see the reluctance in his eyes as he let her go.

As she stood beneath the hot spray, she pondered the past few days. They hadn't spoken about what would come next, only that they would each return to their work. They _had_ been living in a bubble, and the hours spent making love and talking had made them considerably closer, and even more cut off from the outside world. Neither of them had had the courage to talk about their future together. Teresa hated not having a plan, not having an inkling of what was expected of her, but she was also afraid to ask him what he wanted.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

They rode in a hired limo to the airport, where Patrick would drop her off. She wore her baseball cap low over her face, her sunglasses at the ready, even though it was nighttime. The car would take Patrick on to his home in Malibu, yet still they had not spoken about the future. Had they still been on the show, he might have been close to proposing marriage to her.

The car stopped at the loading zone at Departures. He took her hands in his.

"Call when you get home," he told her.

"I will."

He leaned forward and kissed her, and she felt a sadness settle in the pit of her stomach. His lips were hot on hers, and by the time he raised his head, they both tasted her tears.

"I love you," he said. "Remember that, no matter what happens." His thumb brushed aside a stray tear from her cheek.

She was surprised at the finality in his voice, but she didn't question it. "I love you too," she replied, her voice trembling.

"Be careful."

"You too," she said, and squeezed his hand. Patrick nodded to the driver, who got out and opened the door for her before retrieving her luggage from the trunk. Patrick stayed inside the car, not wanting to draw attention. Their pictures had been all over the TV and internet for days.

With a last wave, she was gone.

Patrick stared sightlessly out the window all the way home.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Two weeks passed, and except for the initial call when she got off the plane, communication between her and Patrick had abruptly stopped. A couple of times, the LA police called to verify parts of her statement she'd given the day of Lorelei's arrest. She'd have to testify when the case finally went to trial.

Teresa dealt with the crazy influx of business that came with her newfound notoriety, and began compiling a list of former CBI colleagues she could call to see if they wanted to come and work for her. She didn't have much time during the day to miss him, but the nights were a different story.

Had it all just been a fairy tale, she wondered, staring up from her bed at the dark ceiling. Was their budding relationship destined to become part of the many _Mr. Right_ failures that far outnumbered the successes that had come from the show? It would seem so. He didn't call to reassure her, but then, neither did she.

As for Patrick, he had all but disappeared from social media (she checked daily), and his shows in Vegas had been postponed indefinitely. She wondered if he was okay, but more than that, she wondered is she would ever see him again. She barely ate, and it was a constant battle not to stop at the bar after work every night.

It was at the beginning of the third week that the doorbell rang in the middle of the night. Teresa awoke from a fitful sleep, disoriented by yet another bad dream. When the bell rang again, she reached for her gun out of long years of habit. Grabbing her robe, she pulled it on while walking toward the door, turning on lights as she went. At the door, she flipped on the outside light of her townhouse apartment and looked through the peep hole.

It was Patrick.

Her heart skipped a beat, and she had to take a deep breath before she opened the door.

"Patrick," she said calmly.

He smiled tiredly, then looked at the gun in her hand in mild dismay.

"I know I haven't called, but…"

"Occupational hazard," she said coolly, but kept the gun. "It's very late, Patrick." Perhaps in more way than one.

His smile faltered. "You're mad, I see."

She didn't comment, just waited for him to speak.

"Look, I've been on the road for hours. All I could think of was seeing you. May I come in at least before I fall asleep standing up?"

She hesitated a moment, but let him in with an audible sigh.

"Thank you." He crossed the threshold that led right into the living room. He plopped own on her couch without being invited. "Hey," he said. "Comfy couch."

"What do you want?" she asked sharply. She stood before him, too nervous to sit down.

"I'm sorry. I should have called. But you know, you didn't either."

"I _did_ call when I got home. I figured it was your turn to call."

His eyebrows rose. "Ok, I get that. I'm sorry. I screwed up. I admit I've been a little…confused. When you left, everything suddenly overwhelmed me. I started second-guessing, wondering if everything had been real. I needed to step back a little."

She set her gun on the coffee table and sat on the arm of the couch. "You don't think I felt the same way? Especially after all the shit hit the fan in the days before I left? We were in this together; we could have talked about it. I would have understood, given you some time. But cutting me off completely wasn't fair."

"You're right," he said meekly. "But I want you to know, I've come to my senses, and I've made some other big changes too. Last week, I gave up my Vegas show and put my Malibu house on the market. I'm through with the spotlight, Teresa. All the media attention, all the gossip and scandals showed me I don't want to live under a microscope anymore. I want to do private psychic readings here in Sacramento, maybe do a TV special once in awhile for the money. But the whole idea is to be here…with you."

She stared at him in shock, and her heart was pounding loudly in her head.

"Please, Teresa. Give me another chance. I've been an idiot, but I still love you, I still want to make a go of this, if you can forgive me."

"You're moving here?" she said, as if from a distance.

"Yes, if that's what you want."

"I don't know. It's been hard on me; how do I know if I can trust you now? I used to believe in the fairy tale, but you ghosted me completely these past two weeks. Maybe we're not really ready for this."

He slid closer to her on the couch, reached for her cold hand and looked up at her through sleepy eyes. "I'm ready. Could we try please, just to see?"

She looked down into his beloved face, felt herself swaying toward him, both literally and figuratively, but she still hesitated. He maneuvered his hips to dig into his pants pocket; then, pulling out his car keys, he presented them with a flourish.

"I never got to give you the final key to my heart." He grinned hopefully. "It's not an official key from _Mr. Right_ ; actually, it's to my Citroen. But it's the closest thing to my heart that I own. Please say you'll accept it."

A hint of a smile played about her lips. "You're giving me that run-down old relic?" she said dryly.

"If you'll have us both."

Her face remained serious, but her eyes flashed with amusement. "Are they mutually exclusive?"

He pulled her into his lap. "No," he said, before he took her mouth in a searing kiss.

"What the hell am I going to do with that car?" she asked much later in her bed.

"Show it off. It's a classic." He laughed when she rolled her eyes. "Okay, how about a trade?" he said, reaching on the floor for his suitcoat. He brought out a small jeweler's box and put it in her hands. Teresa felt a wave of dizziness and was very happy she was lying down.

"Patrick…"

"Open it."

She did, with trembling hands. It was a diamond solitaire surrounded by emeralds. She gasped as the jewels glittered in the lamplight.

"My first instinct was to buy you the biggest stone I could find, but I didn't figure you for something ostentatious. And the emeralds reminded me of your eyes."

He took the ring from its velvet nest and slipped it on her left ring finger.

"Marry me," he said.

A million protests came to mind, among them the very real idea that it was too soon. Also, she'd just been furiously mad and hurt an hour ago.

"We both took a chance on finding love, and got much more than we bargained for," he said, seeing her hesitation. Had he read her completely wrong? Was he slipping in his mentalist skills? He rushed to fill in the silence, his heart squeezing with fear. "I love you, Teresa. Life is about risks, and I'm tired of playing it safe. Be my Mrs. Right."

"Yes," she said, her eyes shining. "And you can keep the car."

He smiled in relief and joy. "Deal," he said, and sealed it with a kiss.

 **THE END**

 **A/N: Thanks for sticking with this fic, despite how long it took to write it. I appreciate your support and lovely reviews. Below, you'll find the deleted scene I spoke of. It takes place back in the LA hotel, right after Teresa took a shower…**

 **Deleted Scene**

She hadn't heard the knock on the door, and when she finally came out of the shower in the hotel robe, it was to a scene that she never could have imagined. Erica Flynn was sitting on the bed with a half-naked Patrick, one hand on his bare thigh, the other holding a gun to his side. She was wearing the practical uniform of a maid from the hotel, but somehow she made even that look sexy. Teresa's heart leapt, but years of training and experience brought an instant calm.

"What do you want, Erica?"

The woman laughed, caressing Patrick's leg. "Isn't it obvious? It's what I've always wanted." He jolted involuntarily as her hand brushed over the front of his briefs.

Teresa tried not to take her attention from Erica's face. "You can't have him. You lost."

Erica's eyes moved to angry slits. "I don't appreciate being ignored or embarrassed, especially because of the likes of you. You're not good enough for him; you can't give him what he needs."

"So if you can't have him, no one can?" Teresa said nodding toward the gun.

"Oh, I'm going to have him all right, but I'll let you watch." From her uniform pocket, she withdrew a few zip ties and a bandana and presented them to Patrick. "Gag her and tie her to that chair—and make it tight. No funny stuff." Erica watched him like a hawk, the gun trained on both of them.

Patrick met Teresa's somber eyes and she inclined her head slightly, hoping to convey to him that he not take any risks with this crazy woman, that he should do whatever she said. But she could already see the wheels turning behind his blue-green eyes, and there was an edge of danger there she'd seen when he'd threatened the senator days before. He pulled a straight-back chair from the nearby small dining table where the remnants of their recent pizza feast lay in the closed cardboard box. She tried not to show any emotion as she watched him palm a plastic knife from their takeout delivery, but when he moved the chair in front of her, he winked.

She sat down and let him zip tie her hands behind the back of the chair, and at Erica's instruction, tied each of her ankles to a corresponding chair leg. When the gag was in place on her mouth, he turned back to their captor.

"Now your turn, Patrick." She held up another pair of zip ties. "Get back on the bed near the headboard." He complied, but for the first time, he spoke.

"What do you expect to come of this, Erica," he said, stalling. "You'll have to kill us both to keep us from talking. Do you really want to do that?"

She shrugged. "I'd probably regret killing you. Teresa, not so much."

From her vantage point tied to the chair, Teresa watched as Patrick moved his hand palm down on the bed, surreptitiously sliding the plastic knife beneath the pillow. He was staring directly into Erica's eyes, and she heard the change in the tenor of his voice from calm to almost soothing.

"You're worth loving, Erica. You don't have to force yourself on people. You're beautiful, successful. Any man would want you."

"Any man but you, apparently. But you haven't had a chance to see what you've been missing yet. Once you do…"

She moved closer to him on the bed, gave him another zip tie. "Put one of these around your wrists, Patrick. You can tighten it with your teeth."

This time, he didn't immediately follow orders. "Tell me what happened to you. I'm guessing your father wasn't in the picture growing up."

She frowned. "Stop trying to mentalize me. My father was there, for your information. He was a good provider. I got everything I ever wanted."

"Except for him to be emotionally present," he countered. "I bet he didn't even push you on a swing, or rock you in his arms when you skinned your knee. Back and forth, back and forth…wouldn't that have been nice? Warm and comforting. Back and forth…soothing, like you were floating in the ocean with the waves. Back and forth…back and forth…"

Teresa stared. _Was he hypnotizing her?_

"You don't need to hurt anyone, Erica. Daddy is here. Daddy loves you. Let me have the gun, baby. You don't need that anymore…"

To Teresa's amazement, Erica gave him the gun. "Daddy?" she said, her voice raising in pitch to that of a little girl.

Patrick stood up from the bed, moved to put his arm around her. "It's okay. Time for bed. I'll rock you to sleep. Back and forth, back and forth…"

He pushed her down on the bed, then took the zip tie and pulled it gently around her wrists, then her ankles. He pulled the sheet up to her chin. "Sleep now, little Erica." Keeping the gun on her, he backed up to Teresa's chair and pulled the gag down from her mouth.

"Oh, my God," she whispered. "What the hell did you do to her? I never believed that part of your show was real."

"Oh, it's real, all right." He eyed Teresa's zip ties, then grinned sheepishly. "You have any scissors?"


End file.
